Sunday, December 9, 2012

Interview - Elise Hepner

Today on Coffee-Fueled Erotica, we’re joined by Elise Hepner. Elise holds a special place in my career: the very first piece of cover art I made for someone outside of my own skull was back in December 2009. And it was for Elise. It was for her tasty little lesbian college romp, College Trouble. I believe it was one of her very first pieces of published fiction, too.

Well, since then, Elise has gone on to conquer parts of the world with her hyperactive imagination and keen writing. But don’t just take my word for it. Look at this bio!

Elise Hepner writes smutty goodness for Ellora's Cave, Xcite, and Excessica. She's appeared in several Cleis anthologies including 69 Stories of Sudden Sex and Best Bondage Erotica 2012. She lives with her husband and two clingy kitties in Maryland. Visit to learn more and explore her backlist.

With a brand new (and very naughty) release under her belt, I invited Elise to drop in and say g’day. Or...y’know...the American version of it...

Willsin Rowe: You’re a very busy writer, judging by your output. I’ve seen you quoted as saying you write thirteen hours a day. What happens to you (and to those around you!) when you don’t get to write?

Elise Hepner: Honestly, the only bad outcome is I have really wicked, bad dreams. For some reason when I don’t exercise my writing muscles, my subconscious turns on me. It’s very pesky. Because of this I’ve been known to write at really odd hours with no understandable set schedule. My sleep clock is always off.

WR: Ah, yes. A common issue among writers. “Sleep is a time-sucking bastard”. Now, BDSM. Scanning through your published stories, you clearly have a taste for it. What elements about the genre appeal to you most?

EH: This is kind of a hard question, because when I started writing it was merely something that intrigued me, a sexual playtime I wanted to know more about, so I researched it and it fell into my work. From there now it’s become more fantasy than anything else. BDSM has had a weird revolution in my head. I kind of went from curious to practicing and back again. 

But to answer your actual question, I enjoy the fact that sometimes with BDSM you don’t have to think. You can give up your day or your mind or your heart to someone else and that’s okay because you trust them so explicitly that they won’t do anything bad with you unless you want them to. Everything else is just testing the boundaries. And I think way too much. I’m a constant stress ball.

WR: I’m with you 100% there. Now, there has obviously been a flood of BDSM erotica in the past 12-18 months thanks to the popularity of 50 Shades. As someone who was writing in the genre before “the explosion”, what’s your take on all the fuss?

EH: Oh, boy. I mean, I guess I’m supposed to say yay because it’s opened up the genre to a bunch of new readers and (maybe) stripped away a bit of the stigma, but mostly it’s more competition. Which is a bit distressing.

WR: Yes, like you I have mixed feelings. I also question the validity of the so-called BDSM in 50 Shades. I much prefer your take on it (as described in your previous answer). Is there a genre you’d believe you would never write? And why?

EH: I thought I would never write M/M, I don’t read much of it, mostly because it doesn’t do much for me. But I broke that about a month ago when I wrote a short submission for Cleis Press for an anthology. Now, I’d probably have to say the only thing I wouldn’t write about is scat—but who knows. I like money, if scat becomes the new BDSM, I just might take it on anyway.

WR: And lastly, a hypothetical: you’re single, and you may have a threesome with anybody in the history of the world. Who do you choose?
EH: Angelina Jolie and Eliza Dushku. Done. Or Christian Bale and Ryan Gosling.

WR: Ah...all that pretty in one place. I think I’d go blind! Well, thank you for dropping by, Elise. Now comes the really cool bit: finding out a little more about your new release, Sextionary! (And if I had to guess, I'd say that could well be Mr. Jimmy Thomas on the cover...nice choice!)

One small, sand filled timer flipped Jasper and Jill’s world. 

Boring, board game date nights evolved into twenty questions or a spanking. From stimulating conversations—to ripped panties as a makeshift gag. And Jasper’s new fascination with anything leather pulling Jill further down onto her knees.

The Rules of the Game: 
Jill draws on paper what she wants from her husband’s lips, tongue, teeth, and fingers

No stick figures

If Jasper can’t guess her needs, he takes over any way he sees fit

Only a minute to shift their roles—but there’s always time for the darkest pleasure—and a line they never thought they would cross.

“Honey, I’m home,” she called out, secretly pleased when her voice didn’t quaver one bit.
The scent of strawberry—wafting from the candles tucked in every corner—both soothed her mind while also tightening her muscles as she dropped her purse on the floor. One measured breath after the next. Total silence while she fought off the urge to fidget, picking at her tight skirt or unbinding her hair from the constricting bun. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—mess with their ritual. A personal game during date night that had taken on new meaning half a year ago. Had become so much more than enjoying each other’s company over a glass of sugary, sweet fruit wine and a board game.
More intimate than talking, so she held back her voice, even as she longed to walk into the living room. But it wasn’t only about her wants. Her needs. Marriage was a partnership and she was willing to do her half to make her partner happy. Even if it meant standing perfectly still while her nipples hardened against her rough sweater and she recalled all the fantasies she’d harbored all day at work looping through her brain without a pause button.
“Where are you,” she mouthed the words to herself without breathing a sound.
A shadow wavered out of the corner of her eye. Before she had time to turn her head he stood in front of her as if he’d been there the whole time. A formless shape only defined by flicking shadows and her engrained memories. At least until they made their way to the living room—but she knew from experience that part wasn’t soon. No, he stood his ground in front of her with an unreadable expression against the darkness. Shallow, barely there breaths. Nothing to showcase his eagerness, while she silently pleaded for his touch, every inch of her skin electric with the urge to reach out and brush her fingers across his face.
She didn’t touch him for the same reason he made no movement forward—their anticipation of each other was so much better this way. Close enough to sense the brush of his breath—hot against her cheeks. His mouth would taste like citrus toothpaste while his lips would bruise hard enough that her eyes would fill with tears even closed.
“You look amazing,” his gravelly voice lilted at the end of his words, an odd accent not anything close to their neighbors or friends. Tonight, the words didn’t matter. His tone was like a hand groping beneath her clothes, eager, unstoppable, and full of heady promise.
“You can’t see me.”
“I don’t need to see, to know.” Jasper cracked his knuckles and the sound was a gunshot rending through the charged silence.
His callused hand wrapped around her wrist and she barely registered that he’d moved forward blocking the entrance to their gourmet kitchen. When she swallowed she nearly choked. As her chin tipped up to look into his eyes, he clucked with his tongue. A gentle reminder. Her eyes slid back to the cheap carpeting in their entryway.
But she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that when his fingers pressed ever so slightly into her wrist in warning that her throat closed on a sigh. Though he hadn’t spoken, she knew his touch well enough it was as if he had uttered a forceful command. Loud and constant—until her nervousness was drowned out by the cacophony of blood pumping and rushing between her ears.
“Come ‘ere.” He slid his hand up along her forearm and jerked her to his broad, muscular chest while he towered above her petite curves by at least a foot. They rocked together as if magnetized. Pride swelled in her chest when she merely blinked at his actions though the rest of her practically dissolved in his arms soaking in the warmth of protection and the danger his veiled strength.
She didn’t put out a hand to stop him—though it wouldn’t have mattered. Jasper would have swatted it away and gripped her all the tighter, all the more painful, until there were tender bruises that she reveled in the next morning. Small, tender marks that would sweetly sting when he pressed on them across the breakfast table. Besides, it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t leave marks, even when she was good. He dragged his thumb across her skin with his stinging heat—like she was a roadmap to the only destination in the world that mattered.
And as she closed her eyes, her very cells cried out for more of his touch. Her hand curved along his solid, muscular hip. His gaze swept over her until she didn’t have to look at him to know his intentions. Her stare bore into his white t-shirt, her eyes focused so hard on him that she was shocked there wasn’t a hole in his chest that started smoking. His other hand shifted up from her hip to her shoulder, along her neck, and below her chin. Every place he touched hummed and she dug for willpower to keep her hand from shaking against the smooth, smoldering heat of his skin beneath his shirt.
One stroke along her chin with his thumb. Enough to set her teeth to chattering if she hadn’t had her jaw clamped shut in order to avoid him knowing the impact of his touch. Jasper was cocky—didn’t need any more help in that department. Until he gave her something, she would work to give him nothing. All day she’d labored with the knowledge of the sweet, hard press of his lips against her throat and the particular rat-a-tat-tat of his fingers against her clit. 
The less reaction, the better.
Before she could figure out what angle he was working tonight, her husband jerked up her chin with a pleased grunt. Her head tipped back with a blink. A deep breath of pine filled her lungs until she ached lodging a noise in the back of her throat. She gauged the look in her lover’s calculating brown eyes. Against the backdrop of darkness with the subtle flicker to their right she could only make out the bright points of his eyes. As if flames danced within them. Tonight he would be the devil, her tormentor—the association inside her mind wasn’t a surprise.
“I’m the man that gets to remove all these trappings to get to the sweet treat of your nakedness. I’ll never take it for granted—though tonight you won’t be so lucky,” he breathed against her lips, barely a caress of skin on skin. Enough of a tease that she arched on tiptoe trying to meet his mouth, even as he was already on the verge of leaving her high and dry.
There was no reply, because he didn’t expect one. Even if he had, his chest brushed against the front of her sweater until the commanding caress of his hand that had shifted onto the nape of her neck became something of an anchor. Knowing the ritual, their odd little habits every Friday, didn’t make anything boring or old hat. In fact, her knowledge of what to expect in the beginning of their little dance only skyrocketed her anticipation—merely because she knew once his hands were off of her anything was up for grabs.
And with his hands on her while her knees shook, he kept her in place, their eyes locked with a mutual understanding. The next several hours would test them both. But it would be worth it—he always made every move worth it. Jasper’s mouth tilted in a gentle smile that she could barely make out. His gaze told a different, more ruthless story like the slow, predatory kneading along her nerve endings at her nape and forearm. Their only points of connection, yet the subtle contact was enough to send her thoughts spinning away in favor of simply basking in his touch.
“You know what comes next.”
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