The Miscreant and the Master
One of Loki’s earliest works, the Miscreant and the Master has proved popular amongst fans of alternative Asian fantasy settings. That is to say, it’s a martial arts spanking story. I know. Why didn’t someone think of this before? If they did, Loki didn’t notice it. The Miscreant and the Master brings together all the fun of a reluctant young lady learning to kick ass whilst quite often getting her own ass spanked.
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Nocturne
In this tale, Loki swerves wildly off the tried and true formula for spanking romance and goes ahead and adds a touch of mild horror to the entire situation. If you’re tired of people getting spanked without the threat of slathering daemons from another dimension consuming their immortal souls, then Nocturne is the spanking e-book you’ve been waiting for.
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To Tame A Thief
To Tame a Thief is a slightly more traditional spanking tale, if by traditional spanking tale you’re talking about a modern setting in which a dominant male meets a bratty female who then spends the entire novel trying to steal his business out from under him. Ah, true romance.
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The Taming of Miss Munroe
Steampunk Victorian spanking romance (it’s actually not steampunk at all, but I like the image of leather and brass that word evokes.) This is actually a Sherlock Holmes inspired tale, not in the sense that pygmies from Melanisia murder anyone, but in the sense that the tale is narrated by the slightly portly gentleman friend of Walker, Master of Discipline as he attempts to subdue Miss Munroe to the meek and the good
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Surprise book! Surprise! I wrote an ebook when nobody was expecting it. Like a ninja. Except with words. ‘Nocturne’ is a new dark spanking romance from yours truly. Yes, it is M/F (man spanks woman), or rather it is V/F (vampire spanks woman), but I don’t think any of us should let that get in our way. Gender is just a chromosomal construct created by a misogynistic and misandrist Universe. Screw that universe.
Anyway, I think you’ll enjoy this. I sure enjoyed penning it with my keyboard.
“Yea, though I have made my home in the valley of the dead, I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me, thy cup of tea and orange crème bikkie succor me,” I murmured to myself giddily as I began the 11th hour of an 8 hour shift.
I wasn’t complaining, work was quiet, cool, sterile. Absent of the living, just the way I liked it.
Finishing up the remainder of my biscuits, I washed my hands, stretched on a fresh pair of opalescent thick green rubber gloves and made my way down the rows of silent bodies shrouded in white hospital linens. My rubber soled shoes muted the sound of my steps, denying the large metal cavern the echo it craved.
Some people think that mortuaries are creepy, but they’re really no more creepy than your average garden patch and I’m no different from any avid boatanist. It’s just that instead of petunias and cabbage, I examine carbon shells as they slowly return to the stuff from which they came.
“Got another one for you, Wednesday,” the intercom on the wall crackled into life, disturbing the silence.
“Ready,” I replied briskly, pressing the little red button. I was always ready for the dead.
I heard the elevator open in the distance, and then the familiar click, clack, crunch of the gurney making its way towards me. One wheel was perpetually stuck, but nobody seemed inclined to fix it. It wasn’t anybody’s job to do so. In a small city hospital, nothing gets done unless it’s somebody’s job. I counted myself lucky that squeaky gurney wheels were about the sum total of my troubles.
It took a moment or two for the orderly, a staunch fellow who never seemed quite at ease down here in the bowels of the hospital, to arrive with the gurney.
“DOA. Jane Doe, cause of death unknown,” he said, his eyes fastened on my face, not because I’m particularly beautiful, but because focusing on the living helps people ignore death, even when it is quite literally being pushed before them just a few inches under their noses.
From the cradle to the grave we walk a tight rope above the abyss, most of us too scared to gaze into the perpetual void that accompanies us every hour. I was not afraid of death anymore, merely curious. Steve, on the other hand, still had his eyes tightly shut to his own mortality.
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