New, expanded edition!
My publisher has slapped a paragraph-long reader’s advisory on my new release, Incognito. Personally, I don’t like the prissy tone of their notice. On the other hand, I don’t want to offend any readers who pick up the book without a clear understanding that it contains taboo content.
And I’m willing to admit, some people might be shocked. The book is not for the faint of heart. Both Miranda and Mark are polymorphously perverse characters, attracted to both their own and the opposite sex. They’re natural switches, drawn to roles on both sides of the BDSM power equation. The book includes pretty much every variety of sexual encounter, from age play to cross-dressing. I’m sure that some readers would dismiss the book as nothing but gratuitous sex.
That’s not how I see it, though. Incognito is, first and foremost, the story of one woman’s journey to realize and express her sexuality. Miranda’s heart-crushing initiation into sex leaves her emotionally scarred, unable to reconcile the experiences of love and lust. She’s ultimately healed by her relationship with Mark, a man who’s open and accepting of all her desires.
Blurb
Betrayed and abandoned by her first lover, shy and studious Miranda Cahill freezes in response to any sexual attention from someone she knows and likes.
During the day, she works diligently on her doctoral thesis. At night, though, she finds herself drawn into increasingly extreme sexual encounters with strangers. Her anonymous secret life begins to take over when she discovers that the masked seducer she meets in a sex club and the charismatic young professor courting her are the same man.
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Reader Advisory: This book contains mention of incest involving an aunt and nephew and also scenes of incest involving a pair of M/F cousins. There is both M/M and F/F content within this book, as well as public sex, ménage et trois, swapping of partners, use of foreign objects during sex, anal sex and a scene of dubious consent.
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Story Excerpt
Miranda tried to act normal as she walked through the Literature Department corridors the next morning. Excitement about her secret find hummed beneath the surface, though. Her step was light and she could not help smiling at everyone she encountered on her way to the student lounge.
Passing a classroom, she glanced through the glass-paned door and saw Mark Anderson in front of two dozen students. She stopped to watch him. Although she could not hear his lecture, his face was animated. He smiled often, laughed occasionally, gave his students complete attention when they spoke. Pacing from one side of the room to the other like an actor on a stage, he moved with lithe grace. He used his hands, gesturing expansively one moment, clenching his fists dramatically the next. Occasionally he ran his fingers through his tousled brown locks, sweeping them back off his forehead.
Miranda found herself transfixed. His performance ran the gamut from the melodramatic to the comic. Just like Dickens, she thought. There was an ache in her chest as she realized how attractive he was, how accessible he seemed. Not at all like the arrogant, mocking gentleman in her dream.
He was totally focused on his class, but suddenly he looked over at the door. Did he recognize her standing on the other side of the glass? She felt the intensity of his gaze, and it seemed that their eyes locked for a long moment. Miranda was embarrassed, as if she had been discovered engaging in some forbidden act. Blushing, she hastened away.
Mark found her fifteen minutes later in the lounge, drinking a cup of coffee, skimming a Xeroxed manuscript and trying to calm the silly beating of her heart. “Miranda!” Pouring himself some coffee, he sat down next to her. “What did you think of my first lecture?”
His manner was so warm, she couldn’t help answering his warm smile. “Actually, through the glass I couldn’t hear anything you were saying. I was just admiring how much you were able to communicate with body language.”
“Ah, yes, the fruit of my years in amateur dramatics. You might not realize that you are looking at the favorite leading man of the Kenosha Community Theatre. Why, everyone in southern Wisconsin had heard of Mark Anderson!”
“You’re from Wisconsin?”
“Alas, yes, but I’ve been trying to remedy that failing. Graduate school in San Francisco and London. Six months working on my dissertation on a remote island in Nova Scotia. Six months ‘sabbatical’ in Thailand. And now lovely Boston, which I am enjoying more every day.”
Miranda somehow got the notion that this comment had a personal dimension. She ignored the discomfort associated with that thought and forced herself to continue with the conversation.
“Where are you living? Have you found a decent apartment?”
“Actually, I’ve got a great place, on Pearl Street.”
“In Chinatown?”
“Exactly. On the third floor, above the Jade Garden Restaurant. It’s an old building, with tall windows and wooden floors. I look out on an alley, so it is relatively quiet. The only problem is, with the cooking smells that filter up from below, I’m always hungry!”
They both laughed, and Miranda felt marginally more relaxed.
“What about you, Miranda? Where are you from?”
“Born and bred in Cambridge. Spent my childhood playing in Harvard Yard.”
“Miranda Cahill—you’re not related to Herman Cahill, the Shakespearean scholar?”
“My father. He’s retired now, living in Florida. Obviously, I couldn’t do my graduate work anywhere but here, in his department.” Miranda sighed. “All the expectations are a bit of a burden. No one mentions it, but everyone knows that I’m his daughter.”
“I’ll bet you were named after the character in The Tempest,” said Mark with a laugh.
“His favorite play,” nodded Miranda. “It is a good thing that I wasn’t a boy, or he might have named me Prospero!”
“So, what does your father think about your unconventional thesis?”
“He refuses to comment. He can be something of a curmudgeon sometimes. In fact, I think he finds it embarrassing, but titillating.”
“Well, I can understand his perspective.” There was an awkward moment of silence. Miranda stared at the bottom of her coffee mug. Mark finally spoke.
“Look, I’ve got to run. I have a student conference in five minutes. But I’d love to talk some more. Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight?”
Miranda hesitated, nervous all over again.
“I’m as good a cook as I am an actor, if I do say so. Do you like spicy food?”
“Definitely.”
“Then I’ll cook Thai. Please, don’t disappoint me, Miranda.”
He looked so earnest, so open, and so darned attractive, Miranda could not say no. “What time?” she asked.
“How about eight? It’s 17 Pearl Street, apartment 3B.”
“Can I bring something?”
“Just your lovely self,” said Mark. Then he noticed her blush, and made his tone more matter-of-fact. “You could bring a bottle of wine, if you felt like it. Red.”
Miranda smiled, sensing that he understood her ambivalence. “I have a bottle of Côtes de Rhone that my father sent for my birthday. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”
“Seems very appropriate.” Mark glanced at his watch. “I really have to go, but I’ll see you tonight, okay?”
“See you tonight,” said Miranda. Then she sat by herself for another ten minutes, waiting for her heartbeat to return to normal.
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Adult Excerpt
Miranda sank back into her seat and stared at the empty rows of chairs, overwhelmed by the events of the last half hour. Her success on the panel filled her with warm pride. Finally, people would begin to take her work seriously. Then there was Lucinda Scott. Publish the diary, disguised as fiction? How tempting! Here was a strategy that would preserve Beatrice’s privacy while still sharing her insights and adventures with the world. Of course, the diary was too short for a novel. Perhaps, though, Miranda could write some additional chapters. She was confident that she could emulate the rhythm of Beatrice’s prose, and Mark did say that she had a remarkable erotic imagination.
Mark! Where was he, anyway? When last she had looked, he had been at the back of the room, but everyone was gone now. She was suddenly hollow and aching with longing for her lover.
As if in answer to her questing mind, she felt a touch on the inside of her thigh. Mark? She had the urge to look under the tablecloth, to confirm that it was he, but something held her back. A finger alternated, stroking her nylon-clad thigh, then brushing the bare skin above her stocking. The contrast was exquisite, the results electric. The finger-dance along her thighs continued. Now another hand drifted lightly over her mound, tickling her through the satin. She felt brief regret as her juices thoroughly soaked the expensive wisp of lingerie, before lust overwhelmed all other concerns.
Slumped in her chair, she spread her thighs, shamelessly offering access to her hidden partner. He responded by tracing the outline of her pubis with his fingers, along the edges of the thong where fabric met flesh. Miranda writhed. She wanted him to touch her inside the garment, to rip it off and plunge his digits into her. Still, he played with her, rubbing the slippery fabric against her clit, forcing the damp cloth up between her legs, wedging the thong into the crevice between her cheeks and rocking it back and forth over her anus.
Now she felt moist heat, delicious, melting her. His mouth hovered over her sex and he simply breathed. His hands were quiet, holding her thighs wide. There was only his mouth, his breath, and the images unrolling in her mind. She felt as though he were holding a burning candle to her clit. She saw herself staked spread-eagle on a crag, her privates baked by a tropical sun. She felt herself bathed in molten gold that pouring over her folds, filling her, gilding her. The heat swelled until she erupted against his lips, juices like lava overflowing her cavities. She whimpered as her climax seared her. Hot tongues of pleasure lapped at her satin-sheathed pussy. Flames flickered on her closed eyelids.
Dimly, she felt her garters being unhooked and her soaking panties removed. Strong arms lifted her. She felt starched linen against her buttocks. She was seated on the table. Opening her eyes at last, she found Mark standing between her legs, unzipping his fly.
Not for the Faint of Heart
And I’m willing to admit, some people might be shocked. The book is not for the faint of heart. Both Miranda and Mark are polymorphously perverse characters, attracted to both their own and the opposite sex. They’re natural switches, drawn to roles on both sides of the BDSM power equation. The book includes pretty much every variety of sexual encounter, from age play to cross-dressing. I’m sure that some readers would dismiss the book as nothing but gratuitous sex.
That’s not how I see it, though. Incognito is, first and foremost, the story of one woman’s journey to realize and express her sexuality. Miranda’s heart-crushing initiation into sex leaves her emotionally scarred, unable to reconcile the experiences of love and lust. She’s ultimately healed by her relationship with Mark, a man who’s open and accepting of all her desires.
Blurb
Betrayed and abandoned by her first lover, shy and studious Miranda Cahill freezes in response to any sexual attention from someone she knows and likes.
During the day, she works diligently on her doctoral thesis. At night, though, she finds herself drawn into increasingly extreme sexual encounters with strangers. Her anonymous secret life begins to take over when she discovers that the masked seducer she meets in a sex club and the charismatic young professor courting her are the same man.
--
Reader Advisory: This book contains mention of incest involving an aunt and nephew and also scenes of incest involving a pair of M/F cousins. There is both M/M and F/F content within this book, as well as public sex, ménage et trois, swapping of partners, use of foreign objects during sex, anal sex and a scene of dubious consent.
--
Story Excerpt
Miranda tried to act normal as she walked through the Literature Department corridors the next morning. Excitement about her secret find hummed beneath the surface, though. Her step was light and she could not help smiling at everyone she encountered on her way to the student lounge.
Passing a classroom, she glanced through the glass-paned door and saw Mark Anderson in front of two dozen students. She stopped to watch him. Although she could not hear his lecture, his face was animated. He smiled often, laughed occasionally, gave his students complete attention when they spoke. Pacing from one side of the room to the other like an actor on a stage, he moved with lithe grace. He used his hands, gesturing expansively one moment, clenching his fists dramatically the next. Occasionally he ran his fingers through his tousled brown locks, sweeping them back off his forehead.
Miranda found herself transfixed. His performance ran the gamut from the melodramatic to the comic. Just like Dickens, she thought. There was an ache in her chest as she realized how attractive he was, how accessible he seemed. Not at all like the arrogant, mocking gentleman in her dream.
He was totally focused on his class, but suddenly he looked over at the door. Did he recognize her standing on the other side of the glass? She felt the intensity of his gaze, and it seemed that their eyes locked for a long moment. Miranda was embarrassed, as if she had been discovered engaging in some forbidden act. Blushing, she hastened away.
Mark found her fifteen minutes later in the lounge, drinking a cup of coffee, skimming a Xeroxed manuscript and trying to calm the silly beating of her heart. “Miranda!” Pouring himself some coffee, he sat down next to her. “What did you think of my first lecture?”
His manner was so warm, she couldn’t help answering his warm smile. “Actually, through the glass I couldn’t hear anything you were saying. I was just admiring how much you were able to communicate with body language.”
“Ah, yes, the fruit of my years in amateur dramatics. You might not realize that you are looking at the favorite leading man of the Kenosha Community Theatre. Why, everyone in southern Wisconsin had heard of Mark Anderson!”
“You’re from Wisconsin?”
“Alas, yes, but I’ve been trying to remedy that failing. Graduate school in San Francisco and London. Six months working on my dissertation on a remote island in Nova Scotia. Six months ‘sabbatical’ in Thailand. And now lovely Boston, which I am enjoying more every day.”
Miranda somehow got the notion that this comment had a personal dimension. She ignored the discomfort associated with that thought and forced herself to continue with the conversation.
“Where are you living? Have you found a decent apartment?”
“Actually, I’ve got a great place, on Pearl Street.”
“In Chinatown?”
“Exactly. On the third floor, above the Jade Garden Restaurant. It’s an old building, with tall windows and wooden floors. I look out on an alley, so it is relatively quiet. The only problem is, with the cooking smells that filter up from below, I’m always hungry!”
They both laughed, and Miranda felt marginally more relaxed.
“What about you, Miranda? Where are you from?”
“Born and bred in Cambridge. Spent my childhood playing in Harvard Yard.”
“Miranda Cahill—you’re not related to Herman Cahill, the Shakespearean scholar?”
“My father. He’s retired now, living in Florida. Obviously, I couldn’t do my graduate work anywhere but here, in his department.” Miranda sighed. “All the expectations are a bit of a burden. No one mentions it, but everyone knows that I’m his daughter.”
“I’ll bet you were named after the character in The Tempest,” said Mark with a laugh.
“His favorite play,” nodded Miranda. “It is a good thing that I wasn’t a boy, or he might have named me Prospero!”
“So, what does your father think about your unconventional thesis?”
“He refuses to comment. He can be something of a curmudgeon sometimes. In fact, I think he finds it embarrassing, but titillating.”
“Well, I can understand his perspective.” There was an awkward moment of silence. Miranda stared at the bottom of her coffee mug. Mark finally spoke.
“Look, I’ve got to run. I have a student conference in five minutes. But I’d love to talk some more. Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight?”
Miranda hesitated, nervous all over again.
“I’m as good a cook as I am an actor, if I do say so. Do you like spicy food?”
“Definitely.”
“Then I’ll cook Thai. Please, don’t disappoint me, Miranda.”
He looked so earnest, so open, and so darned attractive, Miranda could not say no. “What time?” she asked.
“How about eight? It’s 17 Pearl Street, apartment 3B.”
“Can I bring something?”
“Just your lovely self,” said Mark. Then he noticed her blush, and made his tone more matter-of-fact. “You could bring a bottle of wine, if you felt like it. Red.”
Miranda smiled, sensing that he understood her ambivalence. “I have a bottle of Côtes de Rhone that my father sent for my birthday. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”
“Seems very appropriate.” Mark glanced at his watch. “I really have to go, but I’ll see you tonight, okay?”
“See you tonight,” said Miranda. Then she sat by herself for another ten minutes, waiting for her heartbeat to return to normal.
--
Adult Excerpt
Miranda sank back into her seat and stared at the empty rows of chairs, overwhelmed by the events of the last half hour. Her success on the panel filled her with warm pride. Finally, people would begin to take her work seriously. Then there was Lucinda Scott. Publish the diary, disguised as fiction? How tempting! Here was a strategy that would preserve Beatrice’s privacy while still sharing her insights and adventures with the world. Of course, the diary was too short for a novel. Perhaps, though, Miranda could write some additional chapters. She was confident that she could emulate the rhythm of Beatrice’s prose, and Mark did say that she had a remarkable erotic imagination.
Mark! Where was he, anyway? When last she had looked, he had been at the back of the room, but everyone was gone now. She was suddenly hollow and aching with longing for her lover.
As if in answer to her questing mind, she felt a touch on the inside of her thigh. Mark? She had the urge to look under the tablecloth, to confirm that it was he, but something held her back. A finger alternated, stroking her nylon-clad thigh, then brushing the bare skin above her stocking. The contrast was exquisite, the results electric. The finger-dance along her thighs continued. Now another hand drifted lightly over her mound, tickling her through the satin. She felt brief regret as her juices thoroughly soaked the expensive wisp of lingerie, before lust overwhelmed all other concerns.
Slumped in her chair, she spread her thighs, shamelessly offering access to her hidden partner. He responded by tracing the outline of her pubis with his fingers, along the edges of the thong where fabric met flesh. Miranda writhed. She wanted him to touch her inside the garment, to rip it off and plunge his digits into her. Still, he played with her, rubbing the slippery fabric against her clit, forcing the damp cloth up between her legs, wedging the thong into the crevice between her cheeks and rocking it back and forth over her anus.
Now she felt moist heat, delicious, melting her. His mouth hovered over her sex and he simply breathed. His hands were quiet, holding her thighs wide. There was only his mouth, his breath, and the images unrolling in her mind. She felt as though he were holding a burning candle to her clit. She saw herself staked spread-eagle on a crag, her privates baked by a tropical sun. She felt herself bathed in molten gold that pouring over her folds, filling her, gilding her. The heat swelled until she erupted against his lips, juices like lava overflowing her cavities. She whimpered as her climax seared her. Hot tongues of pleasure lapped at her satin-sheathed pussy. Flames flickered on her closed eyelids.
Dimly, she felt her garters being unhooked and her soaking panties removed. Strong arms lifted her. She felt starched linen against her buttocks. She was seated on the table. Opening her eyes at last, she found Mark standing between her legs, unzipping his fly.
--
Buy Links (Ebook and Print)
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Barnes & Noble
Totally Bound
All Romance
An All Romance Best Seller!
Goodreads
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About Lisabet
LISABET SARAI occasionally tackles other genres, but BDSM will always be her first love. Every one of her nine novels includes some element of power exchange, while her D/s short stories range from mildly kinky to intensely perverse.
You’ll find information and excerpts from all Lisabet’s books on her website (http://www.lisabetsarai.com/books.html), along with more than fifty free stories and lots more. At her blog Beyond Romance (http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com), she shares her philosophy and her news and hosts lots of other great authors. She’s also on Goodreads and finally, on Twitter.
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Review Quotes
“Incognito brings a fabulous level of intensity and sensuality to the reader.”
~ Dawnie, Fallen Angels Reviews (5 Angels)
“I had almost given up on the current crop of erotic novels, because too many of them have predictable story lines, two dimensional characters and flimsy plotting. However, Incognito is really something different. Sarai skillfully combines the present day storyline with some tantalizing Victorian history. This book is well researched, erudite, well plotted and very sexy. Highly recommended.”
~ Emma K., Amazon (5 stars)
"Incognito is truly a buffet of pleasures, with something for everyone. There's the enjoyment of piecing together the mirroring, multi-layered narratives. Historical and literary echoes provide extra spice for the careful reader—in particular Shakespeare fans might enjoy the parallels to Miranda in The Tempest—all sweetened with abundant humor and clever feminist twists. Always you'll find masterful prose in sizzling erotic scenes that offer flavors to please any palate. And last but not least, the novel will change your view of the world in surprising ways."
~Donna George Story, Erotica Readers and Writers Association.
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