Friday, 31 October 2014


As a culture, we’ve come up with a million ways to augment our bodies: tattoos, fake breasts, prosthetic limbs. Part of this trend of body modification is our fascination with embodying other people’s experiences. Another component is an endless search for new ways to feel.
Which lead me to the question: can we hack our sex lives? For many women, including myself, wondering what it would be like to own a penis has been a source of endless fascination and late-night conversation. A small group of Denver-based sex toy innovators called Orgasmatronics have (if you will) risen to the challenge of creating an experience for individuals born without a biological penis that’s very much like having a real penis — they’ve invented the world’s first bionic strap-on.

The Ambrosia Vibe, the incredibly sophisticated dildo, was first conceived by Orgasmatronic’s resident inventor, Dr. Xtreme. Up until this point, the benefits of wearing a strap-on have been largely psychological rather than physical, but the Ambrosia Vibe brings an entirely new element to dildos: vibrational feedback. With this toy, not only the pleasure of the receiver, but the pleasure of the wearer becomes a major part of the sexual experience. It’s a toy that Dr. Xtreme has been tinkering with for years and was encouraged by his friends, particularly in the queer, kink, and trans communities, to pursue. “The response was, ‘Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, you have to build this,’” Dr. Xtreme explains to Nerve.

The bionic dildo is sort of like a silicone super penis. It can respond to the wide range of human touch, including stroking, rubbing, poking, and sucking. How? There’s no sensors in it, but the silicone dildo acts as a pressure cavity that connects to a tiny hose that’s attached to a remote pressure sensor (which is about the size of a deck of cards and can be attached to the belt of a strap-on). When the pressure on the dildo changes with rhythmic movements (you know, someone is sucking it or being penetrated), the bionic dildo translates that pressure to vibrations at the base of the strap-on. So, whatever happens to the dildo during sex, the wearer of the dildo feels through specialized vibrations on their clitoris or body part of choice. The classic bullet vibrator contained within the dildo doesn’t have three generic pulse settings like other vibrators on the market, instead, the dildo mimics a real body part in that each sexual experience is completely its own. Alexandra Ars, who manages the brand, explains to Nerve that, “it basically allows you to make up your own vibration patterns. The vibrator ramps up slowly to its highest speed and then ramps back down slowly to its slowest speed when you start and stop.”

Whatever happens to the strap-on happens to the user. It’s an innovative idea that has a lot of potential for adventurers in the bedroom, whether they’re queer, straight, trans, or solo. Because the Ambrosia’s design is modular, it can easily be disassembled for cleaning, maintenance, and in the future, more sophisticated parts. Dr. Xtreme explained to me a scenario in which users wearing two Ambrosia Vibes could potentially switch hoses, so that everything that happened to one partner’s dildo is felt on your own body. “There’s no extra software for that. You can just swap hoses. We call that the 96, instead of the 69. Where you can stimulate yourself by doing something to your partner’s strap-on.” “So it’s sort of like body swapping?” I said in awe. “We like to call it body hacking,” he explains.

Body hacking seems to be the buzzword within the sex tech community, already a group of software-savvy, body-curious folks who are often early adopters of the this type of cutting edge tech. Sure, other strap-on vibrators exist, but this is the first one to respond to a partner’s actual, realtime touch. The teledildonics industry, a market that specializes in remote sex tech, has seen the rise of many unique inventions like LovePalz, OhMiBod, and Fundawear since the 1990s, but all to limited success. Though Dr. Xtreme is very interested in bringing the Ambrosia into the remote sex tech space, he says it would require the right partnership with a company that has already built the software.

He explains the boom-and-bust of the teledildonics industry: “The reason I think is that nobody wants to do anything over the internet that they wouldn’t do in the same room. So if you find you and your partner want to do this thing and you’re face to face and it’s just a few inches distance and you got 15 inches of cord connecting you, and that’s fun and cool, then you might want to do that over the network.” With the Ambrosia ready to integrate with all kinds of vibrators and sex machines, the possibilities for future relationships and a variety of sexual encounters are endless. Dr. Xtreme mentioned to me a scenario called the “Two Guys Threesome” that he could envision tamer couples trying out with the help of the Ambrosia. “It’s conceptually a comment my wife made up about [the Ambrosia]…it’s the hetero couple having pretty vanilla sex except there’s a penis in their mouth and a penis in their vagina and also a bullet vibe on the clit that’s being operated by the feedback of whatever is happening to the bionic dildo.” If your head is spinning, you aren’t alone. The design of the bionic dildo might be simplistic and “trivial,” as Dr. Xtreme calls it, but the options are complicated, as nuanced as sex itself.

The Ambrosia Vibe, which just launched a crowdfunding campaign on Indiegogo, has nearly met half of its funding goal at the time of writing. Part of that powerful demand might be because the Ambrosia Vibe seeks to bring back the human touch to where it’s direly needed — the wearable tech industry. “I’d like to think it has the power to let people play with their own bodies and let people kind of figure out their sexual identity…they can kind of do a lot more stuff that they wouldn’t normally be able to do otherwise,” Dr. Xtreme explains. “When people are more comfortable with themselves, they’re going to be more comfortable with other people. So maybe someone really wants to try just having a penis, and that’s something that’s going to make them more comfortable in whatever sexual space they want to be in.”
Ars explains that the Ambrosia has also sparked a lot of transformative conversations between her and other women. “I really like being able to push the conversation about sex toys into a little bit of an unexplored space and I think just being able to have a conversation about the Ambrosia with people — what is it and what does it do and what’s a strap on? — that’s already opened up a lot of doors in talking about sexuality. I think that conversation will bring people closer together.”

Available at: $199 offer price $149

Friday, 17 October 2014

THE BRANDING by Oatmeal Girl

I wrote this for the philosopher at his command. There were in fact supposed to be two stories, one about branding and one about a tattoo. In my mind, the tattoo story would have been a sweet one. It never got written. My dark fantasies about branding seized my mind and possessed it until the following story was written. Or perhaps "wrote itself" would be a more accurate description. It was so dark that I couldn't shake it for days afterwards, and the philosopher was, I think, disturbed by what had crawled out of the mud of my soul. He didn't want me to share it. This was for him alone. But he doesn't own me anymore. He sent me away. And I took my stories with me. This seems a good time to reveal what festers below.

You approach the cage where she cowers hopefully. Wordlessly, you unlock the door, reach in, and haul her out by her hair. She scrambles after you, tears springing to her eyes from the pain. There is always pain. But she doesn’t complain. This is her lot. And this is her joy. This is her safety.

“Get dressed, slave. Today you will be branded.”

There is in fact no need for words. No requirement for explanation. But you play her emotions like a freshly-tuned harp. You like the fear that springs to her eyes.

You push her towards the bed, where you have laid out the day’s clothes. A tight pink t-shirt, stretchy and clingy. Tight clingy jeans with a thick hard seam that will cut into her cunt as she walks without the protection of panties. Sandals. Once she has clothed her nakedness (damn those public indecency laws), you replace her cold metal choke chain with the black leather band embossed with Celtic knots. Hooking a leash to the collar’s O-ring, you wrap the chain around your fist and with close control almost drag her out of the house and towards the car. You know such brutality is unnecessary. Just addressing her as “slave” sends her so deeply into subspace that she would do anything. But there is something dark in each of you that needs to be nourished, and you have both become addicted to the intensity.

Unquestioningly, she assumes her place in the driver’s seat. There is an odd irony to the fact that you don’t drive, but the power is always yours as she guides the machine.

For safety’s sake, you address her as “kitten” when you give her the directions. Her consciousness is too far depressed when you call her “slave” for her to be trusted behind the wheel.

You arrive at a featureless warehouse. One of many. Again, you use more force than necessary to remove her from the car and push her towards the door. You don’t need to knock. They are expecting you.

As the door is opened, a scream of such terror and pain issues forth that you almost regret the decision to come. But you harden your heart, and your cock hardens, too. You know it is time. This is the final test.

Scream aside, you are greeted with a business-like cordiality due any customer. At the reception desk, your reservation is confirmed and your credit card taken. You have elected to perform the procedure yourself. You are given a sheet of instructions, which are reviewed as she trembles by your side. You don’t look at her. You just sense her trembling. Again, a small part of you tries to cry out its doubts, but you quickly gag it. As you will gag her.

You are ushered into a medium-size room. Something about the rough wood lining the walls gives it the atmosphere of a stable stall. It is unadorned save for the assortment of implements hanging from wrought iron hooks. You can tell that she has caught sight of the display by the way she quickly lowers her head and drops her eyes. She had returned to subspace as soon as you removed her from the car, you had sensed it immediately, and now the potential for torture is sending her even further. Good. When she is that far away, she is protected from the worst of the pain. You like to hurt her. She wants you to hurt her. But there is a line you never want to cross. The damage to her soul could be worse than to her flesh. You’re just not sure where that line is.

In the middle of the room stands something between a sawhorse and a massage table. The top is padded; the legs are slightly splayed, with O-rings at the base of each one. A rectangular space is cut out of the top towards one end.

“Strip, slave.”

She obeys with despatch. Wearing so little, she is done in seconds. You propel her towards the table and with an extra little shove push her face down. She lies still. You know that she would hold position for whatever you chose to do, and the absoluteness of her submission thrills you. But it is imperative that she remain perfectly still for what is to come, and there is something in the act itself that makes you want to see her bound in place.

From your messenger bag you take a set of four shackles. No soft leather bands today. You snap the shackles around her wrists and ankles, run short chains between the rings on the metal bands and those on the table legs, and with a sharp snap secure each limb with a lock. The locks are another excess, another symbolic demonstration of her helplessness. You are getting off on all the symbolism. Your mind is cold. Your cock is hard. Your resolve is firm.

Her breasts are hanging down through the opening in the tabletop. Sliding under the table, you adjust her tits so they are perfectly placed. You twist each nipple, pleased to find them already erect. Fear drives her arousal. In your hand you hold a set of Japanese clover clamps. Dispassionately, as if connecting jumper cables, you attach one end to each nipple, then give a sharp tug on the chain to drive the clamps deeper into the tender flesh. She gasps, but does not cry out.

You aren’t done. You want to impress on her how owned she is, how helpless, how subject to torture and invasion. Your casual claiming of her every hole will inspire the sense of humiliation which is yet another trigger for her submission.

The bag yields a butt plug, a dildo, a ball gag, and a blindfold. Silent all this time, you now accompany your actions with the words that you know will destroy whatever is left of her spirit and dignity.

“Look at you, slave. Your cunt is dripping. What a pain slut you are. Well, there will be plenty of pain for you soon enough. The only lube this butt plug will get is what it can scoop out of your slut-hole.”

You fuck her cunt roughly with the butt plug, then spread her ass checks and drive it into her anus. A few strokes with the dildo are followed by dire warnings of what will happen if she lets it drop.

You walk around to the front of the table and yank her head up by the hair.

“I love to hear you scream with pain, slave. I love to hear you scream. But today I will gag you, slave. You hate to be gagged. And so I will gag you. I will gag you so there will be no doubts. I will gag you, slave, because you are mine.”

And so you do.

There’s only one thing left. One thing left to drive her deeper inside herself until she completely floats away. And so you blindfold her.

It’s almost time. You walk back to the foot of the table and contemplate her ass. At first, you thought you’d brand her right cheek, at the fleshiest part, but then thought better of it. You want it somewhere that will be safe from your hand and your belt and the cane. So you choose a spot on the upper thigh, where it is still padded but unlikely to be struck. You eye your canvas, fixing the image in your mind before you change it forever. Then you walk to the wall and press a buzzer next to the door.

A man appears and hands you a rod of iron. It is the brand. If you strike within the next minute, it will be the scientifically determined temperature to inflict enough damage to leave a perfect impression without risking a trip to the emergency room and the dangers of the questions that would raise.

The brand was designed to your specifications. Now seen in reverse, the blunt simplicity of its form mirrors the simple brutality of the way you treat your slave. Two plain letters. One vertical line serving them both. This is your hallmark. She is your creation. But it is not purity that will be guaranteed by this stamp. Your hallmark is a sign of the depth of debauchery to which you both have sunk. A purity of sorts, perhaps, for nothing mars the strength of the bonds which, you must admit, enslave you as much as they do her.

But no time for introspection. You must, in truth, strike while the iron is hot. Resisting the temptation to soothe her hair and whisper assurances, you take your position behind her, raise the iron rod, take a breath, and press the glowing tip down into her soft flesh.

Your slave’s skin sizzles, a steak on the grill.

A muffled cry of torment issues from behind the gag as her body jerks slightly despite the tight bondage. You count off the recommended number of seconds as the odor of burning meat rises off the table. You choke back a wave of nausea.

In seconds it is done. The brand is removed. You stand there with the implement in your hand, swollen with power. Then tossing the iron to the ground, you stride around to your slave’s head. Wordlessly, you tear off the blindfold. Wordlessly, you unbuckle the gag. Wordlessly, you unzip your pants, and with cock in one hand and her hair in the other, plunge your heated erection down her throat.

You are beyond holding back. The rape is short and savage. It is one more act of claiming.

She is yours.

You hold her head to your crotch as you subside, your fingers still entwined in her hair. And as the fever passes, your grasp eases into caresses. Gently, you disengage her jaws from your wet, soft cock. Keeping one hand on her body at all time, you reach under the table and remove one nipple clamp and then the other, massaging each screaming nub as it is released. Continuing to the back, still in constant contact, you slide out first the butt plug and then the dildo, smiling with wry reassurance at the juices that drip from her cunt. Finally, you unlock the shackles from the table and remove them from her limbs.

She has started to shake. With sobs and with shock. You gather her in your arms and whisper words of love and bemusement.

“What a pain slut you are, slave.
What a cock whore.
What an obedient little cunt.

I own you, slave.
I own you.
Your body bears my initials.
Your flesh bears my brand.
There is no escape.

You are my kitten.
You are my slave.
You are my selkie.

You are whatever I want you to be.

You are mine.”

Oatmeal Girl can be found at her blog Submission and Metaphor; here.

Oatmeal Girl is on TWITTER @oatmeal_girl

Friday, 10 October 2014

THE TIES THAT BIND; Vanessa Duries

She was young. She was beautiful. And she was a slave. Not just any slave; a willing sex slave.

Vanessa Duriès, also known as Katia Lamara (1972 - December 13, 1993) wrote of her experiences as a slave in the French BDSM novel “Le lien.” Translated into English as “The Ties that Bind.”

She created quite a stir in France at the time of the release of the novel, due to her youth and beauty, and appeared on national television, in particular in the show of Bernard Pivot. She also appeared in a pictorial and an interview of the May 1993 issue of the French edition of Penthouse magazine.

Vanessa died in a car crash on December 13, 1993 in the South of France at age 21. Because of her early death, she has achieved a cult status for some BDSM communities. In 2007, five chapters of her second novel L'Étudiante, left unfinished due to her death, were published in France.

Here is a review of her book, from Amazon, UK

“After enduring years of corporal punishment by her father, a young and very much beautiful Vanessa realizes that `Not having the nature of an Amazon, not knowing how to oppose violence with cruelty, I learnt to dominate those who used me by making the offering of my submission both mystical and ambiguous' ...... and thus is born a female slave into the somewhat secretive world of S&M in France in the 1990's.

Right from the first chapter, `The Revelation' , the author introduces us to Pierre, her much `loved' master whom she meets at the age of twenty. In the book, without delving into any of the details of their introduction we find a young Vanessa, although apprehensive about her secret feelings, completely accept and resign herself to her `slave' state of mind and body when she visits Pierre at his countryside mansion. Although Pierre is her master, the author maintains an absolute dedication to her feelings, emotions, thrills and fears, as she is introduced and educated into the true and dedicated sadomasochistic lifestyle of a slave master relationship.

This is, in effect, the mastery of this wonderful young author and the point at which other S&M books totally fall apart since it's pretty well impossible for either the master or the slave to completely comprehend and, honestly write about, the erotic mindset of the other. With the precision of a whip Vanessa intricately describes her slave education in the hands of not only her master but also, of course, a small and very much secretive group of other masters and slaves, both male and female.

Vanessa unabashedly describes her relationship with an awe that she is living the life of total sexual and physical abandon with her much loved master. In her own words, `Pierre is an organizer beyond compare. Since sharing his life, we schedule usually quite eventful weekends throughout the year. When we return, on Sunday evenings, I often find myself in a state close to exhaustion. Pierre is no less tired than me. The role of the master is exhausting, because, while the slave only submits, the master must decide, organize, prepare and take action, all the while watching over the physical and psychic state of the slave that he has decided to honour through tests and humiliation.'

One very sad note, unfortunately, Vanessa Duriès died in a traffic accident in 1993 about seven months after the publishing of this masterwork, truly a loss from a very much talented writer.

Finally, the book has an introduction by Marie Isabel Pita one of today's hottest writers of contemporary erotica, and an afterword by Maxim Jakubowski where he briefly describes the discovery of the lost French edition of this book and his investigation into the last years of life of the author.

Here is Vanessa’s book; The Ties That Bind at Amazon US, And at Amazon UK

Friday, 3 October 2014

PANIC SNAP by Laura Reese

I wasn’t aware that one of my favourite writers in the Erotica genre, Laura Reese, had a new book out. I found out, more or less, by accident. I’d logged into Amazon to check out the publication date of Laura’s Erotic thriller, “Topping from Below,”(1995) and I stumbled across her latest novel; “Panic Snap.”

So, not only was I pleasantly surprised and ordered the book immediately, but I was delighted to discover that Topping From Below is back in print! Why it ever went out of print I’ll never understand; I can only surmise that a lot of people, were doing as I had, and ordered their hard copy of the book, still from Amazon, but via the independent sellers. (And, that btw is a cool way to negotiate at Amazon. The books are often next to nothing -- all you pay is for mailing and the books, unless they say otherwise, are near perfect.) But I digress, I’m supposing that the publishers realised that the book was selling and ordered a reprint. Whatever happened, Laura Reese has now gained the status of a “cult following” and her book has become a “cause celebre” of Erotica.

Topping from Below has a lurid product description; “An explosive, erotic thriller about one woman’s voyage into the heart of evil.” It’s a bold statement, but I guess it works and Laura takes up the theme in Panic Snap.

So what is this “heart of evil?”

The book opens in a court room. There is a trial, a woman is accused of murder and her guilt is assumed, but not yet announced.
While the woman awaits the jury’s verdict, we hear her story.

Fifteen years ago, the woman was found beaten, mutilated beyond recognition and close to death. Slowly, she recovers, helped by ground breaking surgical procedures and intense physical therapy.

The body can, and has recovered, whereas the mind has a mind of its own. And the traumatic events of that morning so long ago, have erased her memory. She does not know who she is; she has no memory of the attack, or her attacker. She has no memory of her childhood or her parents.

She takes the name of Carly Tyler. But who is she really?

Her broken face is healed but she does not recognise herself. The surgeons have done their best, but it is unlikely that anyone who knew her before will know her now.

A just by chance feature in a magazine precipitates a compulsion; a resonance. A photograph of a powerful man suggests a link to her past. The name of his vineyard is in Napa Valley wine country, Byblos; that is where she must go.

A woman’s search for her identity drives the novel – hand in hand with sexual obsession.

Those of you who have read Laura’s previous book will guess that they are in for some explicit bdsm. Those of you who haven’t read Topping From Below – well Panic Snap is not for the faint hearted. Dominance and submission; a Dominant who demands total obedience, even to the point of exerting control over bodily functions. The Bestiality that featured so strongly in Topping From Below, may be absent, but Laura Reese has no fear of breaking through boundaries, shattering Taboos. She uses the character of Carly to demonstrate the psychological dimension of the true submissive. Like the character, of Nora in Topping, Carly bears no shame, no guilt at the depravities her Dominant inflicts upon her; rather she embraces them with mere curiosity as to how far he will push her, and how far down the road she will go.

Laura Reese is a writer with an instinct for precision. Her characterisation is superb; her delineation of scenery is meticulous. She could almost be writing staging instructions for a theatrical adaptation. She writes at a steady, even pace from the description of a room, a vista, food that Carly has prepared for dinner, to the flowers in the magical garden growing alongside herbs and vegetables.
All is coloured to add to an atmosphere, sometimes of tranquility, sometimes evoking fear.

But Panic Snap is an erotic novel – so let’s get on with the sex. Throughout the book the pace never changes; Laura Reese will devote pages to a particular sex act, yet she is never crude. If you are expecting the immediacy of Pornography, you won’t get it – yet in a bizarre twist, the sensations, the images and the emotions here lend themselves so easily to Porn.

So let’s take a look at the Rimming scene --surely, if ever a fetish screamed out for a reader’s arousal, this is it. Check it out – is it Pornographic? Is it erotic?

“I started to reproach her, but then felt her tongue once more on my body, sliding over my buttocks. She kissed every space of flesh, made my skin ripple with anticipation, then spread my buttocks and ran her tongue down the crack in the middle, slowly, and, just as slowly, came back up again. I let out my breath, a lust-felt sigh. Once more her tongue made the descent down the divide, as slow as a slimy snail, lingering, lingering, taking her time, until she reached my asshole – Satan’s hole, she whimsically called it, the dark, winking eye of evil. This time she didn’t pass it over, but lapped at it as if she were an animal, licking it over and over, like a dog tonguing a wound. She caressed my testicles with one hand, the other still spreading my buttocks, then left my balls to reach down and pull on my penis, her tongue still lapping. Her hand slid smoothly on my cock – she must’ve used spit to moisten it – as she tongued my asshole.
“I murmured my approval, then settled down on my elbows and let her continue. She circled the hole with her tongue, wetting it, massaging it, the most hidden part of my body – ‘it’s the brown pit of everything forbidden,’ she once said with a smile – then she pushed her tongue inside as if it were a worm, wiggling its way home.”

And at the conclusion of the Rimming chapter;

“I feel the desire in him, the slight tremble of his flesh, and this makes me work harder, sliding my tongue in farther, feeding the grasping, sloe-eyed hole, and it comes to me then, this resonance of something long forgotten: a renascent passion to please. My response is visceral and unbidden, too complicated for words. I lick and suck him, shove my tongue in his bowels, a vortex pulling me in, while my mind spins. I feel transported to someplace dark and crepuscular, to a feral world where ancient passions hold sway. I keep my tongue inside him, moving, tasting, pushing for lower depths. I am an adjunct in this sex, a mere appurtenance to another, and even as I tongue him deeper, willingly now, needing more of him, even as I do this a distant tocsin rumbles in my brain, sounding the perils. I’m on precarious ground here, traversing the slippery scarps of James’ scree-ridden soul.”

Writers and readers of the Erotica genre talk a lot about ‘the final Taboo,’ well, I do anyway. What Carly is doing is fascinating to her and to us, the reader. She is going against everything we’ve ever been taught, going right back to when we were babies – ‘it’s a dirty place, no, no, do not touch it – wash your hands, flush away all signs of it…’ And where will she go from here? Full blown Coprophilia? Probably, you can sense her carnal need in the paragraph above. Laura Reese does not prevaricate about what is going on here – there’s no innuendo – no clever metaphor to dilute and sanitise. Carly is fucking James’ anus with her tongue, higher and higher up she goes. If his bowel chooses that moment to empty – well, so be it…

From Laura Reese’s keyboard we learn that sexual pleasure, even, perhaps especially, Taboo sexual pleasure, has integrity in both giving and receiving when it comes from the heart. Porn does not talk about feelings – the description of this fetish that could easily draw on the dirt and grime of Porn, becomes a tantalizing tale, worthy of Scheherazade herself. When Carly learns what her sexual partner really wants of her, there is rhythm and pace – a breathless, lyrical placing of words. There is real love in these pages. It’s there, in the subtext. And the reader is a Voyeur, we are absolutely present in this Rimming scene, we are there, watching, as her tongue slides and intrudes.
I do not understand why Panic Snap has provoked so many negative reviews on Amazon, especially Amazon U.S. The main complaint runs along the lines of – ‘Laura Reese has not moved on from her theme of charismatic, sexually controlling men.’ In other words, she is telling the same tale – the tale that she told in her previous book. I don’t think that she is repeating herself at all – certainly, Panic Snap features Sadomasochism at its most extreme at its centre, as does Topping From Below. Both books share a dynamic Dominant with a bizarre sexual magnetism and in both books no one does anything they don’t want to do.

Writers return to the same themes over and over again. Only when they have written it out – only when they have dealt with it, will they leave it alone. Laura Reese has risen to a mighty challenge in Panic Snap – and who knows why she chose the theme of Sadomasochism? Might as well ask why did I choose to read it? And you will probably read it too – why? Because it’s forbidden? Because it tantalizes? Maybe that is why Laura Reese has delved into it – or maybe she just wanted to see if she could, once again, write the Taboo – the forbidden.

But as I say, who knows, and does it really have to matter?

Imagine what those same complaining readers would have said if Laura Reese’s follow up to Topping From Below had been just a plain old murder mystery – with no sex? They would have been furious – that would have been a good reason for a negative review.

If you are reading this on review on Amazon – it will be censored to accommodate Amazon’s hypocritical bullshit. For the full review go to my blog;

In a recent interview Laura Reese said that her next book will not feature Sadomasochism.
Panic Snap is available at all Amazon outlets.

Here it is at Amazon US And at Amazon UK