From Top to Bottom | Janelle Reston, Author

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About

Brace yourself, because there will be pain-but of the oh, so pleasurable kind. There will be begging and there will be bruises, but all leading to an obliterating climax. The fifteen lesbian stories of dominance and submission contained within the pages of From Top To Bottom will make you flinch like the characters do, will make you squirm and want to turn the pages faster and faster. You will find first-time players and long-term couples. A plethora of paddles and the occasional flogger—and a great number of sore backsides. Be warned. With stories from experienced writers at the top of their game and thrilling new talents alike, all of them exploring power dynamics from top to bottom, this collection is kinky, daring and, at times, deliciously violent. Read at your own risk.

In “Dance for Me,” a young stage actress turns to her former dance professor for some strict discipline.

Excerpt

A week before graduation, I went out with a group of friends to celebrate the completion of exams. … My desire to find a fuckable stranger flew out the window as soon as my group walked into the bar and I spotted Professor Lacey in the corner, sharing drinks with another woman around her age. Professor Lacey’s companion looked like she might be a dancer too, with a wiry body and long blonde hair cascading down her back. The blonde batted her eyes and laughed enthusiastically whenever Professor Lacey spoke, but Professor Lacey didn’t return the enthusiasm. She seemed distracted. She fiddled with the ends of her own silk scarf, her eyes flitting around the room until, at last, they landed on me.
Her mouth spread into a smile. I waved. She winked at me. My stomach flipped.
She turned back to her companion, and the moment was suddenly gone. I wondered if it had occurred at all. Perhaps it had been a product of my horny imagination.
My friends and I found a table. I had one margarita and then another. My eyes scanned the bar as restlessly as Professor Lacey’s had done when I’d first entered. They often wandered to her, and to the blonde, who was ramping up her flirtations. Every few minutes, she reached across the table to readjust Professor Lacey’s purple scarf or touch her hand. Jealousy burned my throat.
As I finished my third margarita, Professor Lacey walked over to the bar. The blonde checked her phone, then rifled through a purse for a small mirror, which she peered at in the dim light to apply lipstick.
I slammed my glass down on the table, excused myself to my friends, and made a beeline to the bar.
“Professor Lacey! What a surprise to see you here!” My head felt woozy and my chest warm. These sensations only increased when Professor Lacey turned away from the bartender to face me head on. Her lip curled, as if she were trying to stifle a laugh. I didn’t know how I felt about that. I liked to see her happy, but I didn’t want her laughing at my expense.
“I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just happy to see you.”
Professor Lacey’s smile grew. “I’m happy to see you, too. Though usually when people start off a conversation with, ‘I’m not drunk,’ it means they are.”
I was too thrilled by her first statement to be offended by her second. Professor Lacey was happy to see me. Perhaps it was the first glimpse of happiness she’d had all night. Perhaps she would take me home with her, and I could give her even more.
The bartender set a drink in front of Professor Lacey. I pulled out my wallet. “Let me buy your drink, professor.”
She put a hand on my wrist to stop me from opening the wallet. It was a light touch, but commanding. “No, thank you, Miranda. That wouldn’t be appropriate. I haven’t turned in all your grades yet.”
I glanced back at her table as she gave the bartender a ten. The blonde was watching us. I waved, as if to assure her I was no threat, though I hoped I was. An idea popped in my head—one that would satisfy my curiosity about the blonde woman’s status, and that might also convince Professor Lacey to accept some sort of gift from me. “Is that your date? I can buy her a drink, instead of you. She’s not grading me.”
“She’s not my date. And don’t fool yourself into thinking I can’t see right through why you asked me that.” Her smile disappeared. It turned grim, disciplinary—the way it had always turned when I wasn’t performing up to her standards. “I don’t fuck my students, Miranda.”

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