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About the book:
Sophie Morgan is an independent woman in her thirties with a successful journalism career. Intelligent, witty and sarcastic, she could be the girl next door. Except that Sophie is a submissive; in the bedroom she likes to relinquish her power and personal freedom to a dominant man for their mutual pleasure.

In the wake of Fifty Shades of Grey, here is a memoir that offers the real story of what it means to be a submissive. From the endorphin rush of her first encounter right through to punishments the likes of which she couldn't begin to imagine, she explains in frank and explicit fashion the road she travels. But it isn't until she meets James that her boundaries are really pushed.

As her relationship with him travels into darker and darker places the question becomes: where will it end? Can she reconcile her sexuality with the rest of her life and is it possible for the perfect man to also be perfectly cruel?

Thanks to the publishers, we've got an exclusive extract below.

Words are funny things.

When I am in my submissive headspace I will grovel, I will beg, I will say whatever it is my dominant demands of me. True, some of the words will flow freely, while others will stick in the back of my throat.

Pleading for him to fuck me, punish me, use me, are all things I used to find difficult, but now – thanks mainly to Tom’s obsession with making me say things Ifind embarrassing for his amusement – my voice is assured despite my debasement, proud and wet at pleasing him by demeaning myself.

Calling him sir is harder, my voice then is quieter, and if I can get away with it I hide the humiliation I can’t quite overcome behind the curtain of my hair.

But even though it chafes I can do it. I do.

And my submission ultimately brings great pleasure and release to us both. But the word that grates, no matter how often it is said around me, is slut.

I know. It’s a little word. And in BDSM terms it is not even a derogatory one.

I am comfortable with the dual nature of my personality, the fact that I am independent, capable and in control for most of my day, and yet crave giving power to my top for mind-blowing nights. And afternoons. Mornings too, actually.

But there’s something about the word slut that, even immersed in the most arousing scene, will jar me out of the moment like a needle scratching across a record. Men who like sex are studs.

Women who like sex are sluts.

I know this is the vanilla meaning. I know when I am kneeling naked in front of Tom, sucking greedily on his cock and he calls me it the context and thus the meaning is as different as night and day. But it doesn’t stop my glaring up at him even as I suck him further into my mouth.

He laughs when he sees me bristle at it.

I’m hardly a prude and there are so many other words which wider society as a whole would consider worse and which don’t bother me at all, but slut is the one I hate. And he knows it, loves pushing me, making me explain to him exactly how much of a greedy, grateful, horny slut I am before he’ll let me come.

And while in the back of my mind there

is a part of me bridling at the terminology and wishing I could tell him to fuck off, I obey. I obey in spite of every fibre of my being saying I don’t need to do this, for the small voice which whispers that I do. It is not the most demeaning thing he makes me do but it is one that stings most.

An act of pure submission.

Please note that this extract begins from Chapter 7.

To read an additional teaser from the book, head on over to the Penguin UK website.

This extract was published with permission from Penguin Books UK and Penguin Books SA.

To purchase a copy of the book, visit Kalahari.com.