I think writers of all genres get asked this from time to time and, if one writes erotica, the question sometimes comes with an implied ‘What sort of weird/depraved/ plain odd/ person reads these?’
I have two utterly and totally true stories I love to tell in reply.
First one was shortly after my very first erotic short story was published in Best Women’s Erotic 2000. (Yes, we are going back a bit.) I was at some corporate function or other – before the dh retired I went to quite a few as I am a really nice wife. Anyway I was talking to a group of similarly really nice wives, when a young woman, I’d only just met said, ‘I understand you write erotica.’ Now, all I knew about her (other than that she was also a company wife) was she’d once been a Baptist missionary. So, bracing myself for some sort of lecture or snide look, I replied in the affirmative, and waited. She asked the title of the anthology. I told her, keeping my voice as neutral as I could but biding my time to pick up the cudgels, if necessary. Then, to my astonishment, she went on the tell me how, by the time they got their three small children to bed, she and her dh were exhausted and to liven things, they used to read each other erotica to ignite the spark.
After I closed my mouth, I couldn’t help myself smiling and almost hugged her. I think I offered to send her a signed copy.
Second story was some years on. I was at a group book signing organized by my publisher in a Borders in Akron. (The fact it was a Borders rather dates this too.) This lovely, old lady came up to the table and picked up a copy of Power Exchange. Now, when I say ‘old’ lady I don’t mean someone in her 60s. Her hair was totally white, she was slender but had the no waist no hips, body shape some really old women have and in addition, her skin had that translucent quality I associate with extreme old age. At a guess, she was in her mid-eighties if not older. And there she was with a copy of Power Exchange in her hand and all I could think was ‘Dear Heaven! If she reads that, the poor old soul will have heart failure.’
As tactfully as I could, I said, “That’s BDSM erotica.” She gave me the most gloriously, wicked smile and said. “I know dear, it’s it best, isn’t it? I love your books and my online friends have been saying I must get this one. “ She went on to tell me she’d been a widow for 20 years and never had been one to troll the bars looking for men but, with a nice, sexy read and her vibrator, she was a very contented and satisfied woman.
She went down the table, bought an armload of books and went off. I decided I wanted to be like her when I grew up.
So, for whom do I write? I write for twenty-something Baptist missionaries who are worn out after running after preschoolers all day but still love and desire their husbands, and I write for eighty or ninety something widows who still feel the need.
When Robert speaks, in his slow, deep, ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ voice, he gets my undivided attention. Chicken with Holy Basil can’t compete.
This was our wedding anniversary and I expected a surprise. But what? A bright, red butt plug with a green ribbon round the base? A pale-as-the-inside-of-an-oystershell, vibrating egg? Quilted, purple silk restraints? That had covered Christmas and Easter and my birthday.
Our first wedding anniversary could be anything.
He set a black, velvet jewelers box on the table. Had Robert turned conventional? Buying me a string of pearls or perhaps an add a bead necklace. Possible but highly improbable.
He nudged the box closer to my wine glass. “Open it.”
I had it opened just enough to glimpse the white satin lining in the lid, when our waiter reappeared. All he wanted was reassurance our meal was perfect but I almost slammed the lid on my finger. Maybe it was matinee length pearls but you can’t be too cautious in public. Not when you’re married to Robert Kelly.
Checking to make sure no solicitous waiter or maitre d’ loitered, I snapped open the velvet lid. It was pearls alright but I’d never wear these to the opera – I hoped.
Nestling against the velvet padding and almost reflected in the gleaming satin lining of the lid, were six, large pearls: strung on a fine twisted cord, one end sporting a polished metal ring, plenty big enough for hooking and tugging with a strong middle finger. Read the rest of this entry »
UPDATE: The winner of the free story is…Donamuree Holmes!
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I’m writing like my hair’s on fire today—head down, fingers a-flyin’! Hope you have a more restful Saturday! 🙂
Post a comment today, and you’ll be entered to win a free download from either my Lone Star Lovers series or my Triple Horn Brand series! Here’s the question…
If you could acquire any fictional item for realz, what would you want and why?
Not so easy right? Do you choose Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility so you can stalk your favorite movie star without being detected? (I have no clue why that popped into my mind first—cough, Chris Hemsworth naked in the bath!) Or how about Sherlock Holmes’ pipe? (I want whatever he was smoking!) And there you go. Have fun!
And just a reminder, I do have a sexy, new story out there right now…
Jackson Lowry cussed softly when he spotted the blue lights spinning at the roadblock just ahead. Too late to turn back now. He’d only draw more attention.
Squaring his jaw, he rolled down his window and forced a polite smile as he peered into the darkness at the sheriff’s deputy checking IDs with a flashlight.
As soon as the deputy waved the car in front of him to move along and turned to watch the black pickup roll forward, Jackson’s tension eased a fraction.
Maynard Colby’s expression turned from crisply professional to worried in a second, as soon as he recognized Jackson. “Dammit, Jackson, where have you been?”
“Around. Why?”
A soft moan sounded beside him, and Jackson reached surreptitiously beside him to tap the tarp covering his precious load.
“You didn’t hear?” At Jackson’s vague expression, Maynard stepped onto the truck rail and leaned toward Jackson. “It’s Sammi Jo. Her car was found in Shooter’s parking lot, the door wide open. No one’s seen her. Looks like she’s been snatched.”
Jackson cleared his throat. “How serious is this gettin’?”
“It’s only been a couple of hours, but Sammi Jo’s daddy is buckin’ to get the sheriff to call in the FBI, the CIA, the ATF—and whatever other agency his money can buy to find her. I tried callin’ you, but your phone kept goin’ to voicemail. After the way things went down at the weddin’ last Sunday, I don’t blame you a bit for layin’ low, but I thought you’d wanna know.”
Another sound, this time a snort, sounded beside him.
Maynard’s gaze cut to the dirty tarp folded over a moving bundle on the floor of the cab. A ruddy eyebrow shot up. “What’s goin’ on, Jackson?”
Jackson rolled his eyes then pulled up the corner of the tarp to reveal a bound and gagged Sammi Jo whose eyes glittered furiously back at both men.
Maynard barked a laugh then tightened his lips. “This time you’ve gone and done it, boy. This is seriously fucked up.” He laughed again, then tipped his hat to Sammi Jo. “No disrespect meant, missy.”
Jackson cleared his throat. “Don’t s’pose you can forget about this?”
Maynard’s gaze shot to Sammi Jo again, raked her once as though ensuring she didn’t look to be in any real danger, then tipped back his cowboy hat. “Tell ya what. I’ll put a bug in the sheriff’s ear, but she better come walkin’ through the po-lice house doors come Monday mornin’.”
“Not a word to her daddy?”
One corner of Maynard’s mouth crooked up. “Man’s already caused enough problems. Deserves to cool his heels a couple o’ days. Don’t do nothin’ I’ll have to arrest you for.”
With a nod, Jackson rolled up the window and pulled past the barricade. In his side mirror, he watched as Maynard crossed to the other deputy’s car and both men bent over laughing.
“See that, Sammi Jo?” he murmured, not expecting an answer because he’d made double-damn sure he’d tied some serious knots and gagged her pretty mouth. “I’m not the only one who thinks you need a good paddlin’.”
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If you’d like to check out more of my recent short story releases…
I’ll admit it. I’m shallow. Show me warm colors and a pretty man holding a whip and wearing a cowboy hat, and I melt like butter. So when I found this photo, I had to have it for the cover of the short story I’m releasing this coming Friday (or sooner, depending on Amazon—I’ll let you know).
I know what The Runaway Bride is all about, but I’d love to hear what story this picture tells you. Doesn’t have to be a story. It can be one scene. It can be a line of whatever she’s telling him as he gives her a hard or hot stare. It’s your story. Have fun.
And if you decide to play, there’s a reward—for one lucky person, anyway. I’ll give the winner a free copy of The Runaway Bride.
UPDATE: The winner of the free download is…Galina Sulaiman!
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My day will be full of diapers and Spongebob today! I’ll have my feet propped up on the ottoman and my laptop on my knees. But it will be flung aside a dozen times as I chase down the 19-month-old—she tends to put things in her mouth that don’t belong there. Her favorite “food” right now is her Honest Company diapers. At least she’s no longer eating her crib—we traded the wood one for an industrial metal crib. 😯
Anyways, my day will be exhausting. So I thought about what to do for a blog today, and I’ve got nada. It’s 6:10 AM, and there is no inspiration. Yes, I have new releases to talk about, and if you want to know about them, just click on the covers below, but for right now, I’ll ask a simple question and offer you a bribe to answer it. 🙂
Post a comment today, and you’ll be entered to win a free download from either my Lone Star Lovers series or my Delta Heat series! Here’s the question…
Which month of the year has the best aromas?
LOL. Easy right? If you love the scents of honeysuckle and pina colada tanning lotion, you might love July. Love the smell of roasting turkey…? You get the drift.
And just a reminder, I do have two sexy, fun-as-hell stories out there right now…
Here’s a short excerpt from Johnny Blaze!
Johnny Blaze stood, framed by the curtain, his fireman’s hat tipped low in front, the stage lights gleaming on the shiny top and shadowing his features. His tanned chest and ripped abs were bare except for red suspenders–thankfully, attached to yellow turnout pants. His large feet were encased by black boots. He raised a finger and curled it–twice.
I shook my head, glancing behind me to find the stairs, but gentle pressure on my shoulders forced me to my knees.
“Gotta crawl, Bridget,” biker dude drawled. “All the way on your knees.”
He knew my name? Kneeling, I cut him a quick glance. “I’m in a skirt.”
His smile gleamed white against his darkly tanned face. “I know. Sweet how that worked out.” Read the rest of this entry »
Thanks for your help earlier this week with deciding which cover we should use for the Viking book. The authors had too many opinions, and I thought, why not ask readers? You tend to make more instinctual choices than we do, because we way overthink. 🙂
So it’s Friday….! Yup. New shorty. This one was in Penthouse magazine! If you look at the Penthouse cover below, it’s the “Raunchy Road Trip.” Such a proud moment. 🙂 And the story has some naughty, light S&M. Remember, it’s free to KU readers and just $0.99 for everyone else. I hope you’ll pick it up. Click on the cover to check it out on Amazon!
The Long Ride Home
Ride along with two soldiers, just returned from war, who find sweet release in the long ride home…
Note: This book was previously published in Penthouse Magazine and the Duty and Desire anthology, but has been revised and expanded.
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Excerpt:
Glancing toward Sergeant Maddox, I noted the hard edge of his jaw, the hand wrapped so tight around the steering wheel that the muscles in his forearm tensed. I didn’t have to crawl inside his head to know he didn’t want me there. So why had he told me to get in?
Was he attracted, too, but reluctant to act on it because he was still my superior? Like I’d ever tell a soul. He should have known me better than that. We’d been through hell together, and yet I’d never presumed on the bond, never asked for favors.
Did he want me to make the first move so he’d know my expectations, know just how far I wanted this to go? I smiled at the thought of all the fantasies I’d stored up over the months. And I was finally here–alone with a man who was still feeling edgy and angry.
Maybe I could help him out a bit. And maybe, he’d see me as more than a fellow soldier who’d shared the bench seat of a deuce-and-a-half truck a time or two. One I’d been driving when he’d had to talk me through a hail of gunfire as our transport convoy had come under attack.
I unbuckled my belt, ignoring his deep frown. I turned in the seat and reached for the buttons of his jacket, flicking them open then parting each side.
He didn’t say a thing, but his nostrils flared, his jaw sawed tighter.
I gripped the front of his t-shirt, bunched it in my hand, and tugged it from his ACU trousers.
His stomach jumped, and he sucked it in, making just enough room for me to get my fingers behind the waistband as I unbuckled, unbuttoned and tugged down the zip.
“Dammit, Hollister,” he said, his voice rough as gravel. “You’re gonna get us both killed.”
“Not if you keep your eyes on the road,” I said, tilting up my chin. Then I leaned over his lap, folded down the elastic band of his boxer briefs and pulled his cock upright.
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The Contest
Leave an answer to the following question in the comments and you’ll be entered to win a copy of any of the shorties in the Amazon carousel below EXCEPT The Long Ride Home. That one, I hope you’ll purchase on your own!
If you wrote a naughty story for Penthouse,
which friend or relative could you never tell?
I know f/f isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. But I’ll tell you, sometimes the sexual orientation of a story doesn’t really matter. It’s the story. Straight up. Even if it’s short. Catnip is a lesbian paranormal that I wrote originally for the anthology, She Shifters. I like to joke that it’s one part Practical Magic and one part Josie and the Pussycats. The story’s just plain fun and naughty. And isn’t that what you want from one of my stories?
I’m nearing the end of my Friday spree of short stories. Just three more to go. I’m thinking I might want to continue with a monthly release after that, but I’ll need to write new stories. And I’m thinking, I should write some naughty taboo stories. You know the kind… The young heroine has been dying to do her stepfather, and now that her mom and daddy are divorced, well… Or he’s my cousin, and if it ain’t illegal it ought to be because it’s so damn hot we’re gonna burn the barn down…
Okay, so I’m just thinkin’ about tawdry ideas. And they’d be all about the sex, which is something I love to write. Man, I could write the hell out of those! But in the meantime, I hope you’re enjoying my series of shorts. It’s been fun revising/revisiting the stories. I wanted them all to be at least 5000 words so no one would feel cheated by the word count. Next Friday, it’s a sexy prison short, Pitch Black.
Catnip
A cat-woman doll found at a garage sale reveals a lonely woman’s magical destiny…
Note: This 5000-word short story was previously published as part of the SHE SHIFTERS anthology. It may be short in length, but it’s not short in passion!
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Excerpt:
Mallory set “Miss Kitty” on the bookshelf beside her computer. She’d brushed away as much dust as she could before sponging away the grime. She’d reattached the tail with tiny stitches.
While she’d worked, she’d admired the craftsmanship of the strange little doll. The fur suit was seamless and molded to the figure. The small face wasn’t hard plastic, but something softer, with the texture of real skin. The lips, with their cat’s cleft at the center, were parted with a row of individually attached teeth beneath them. She’d stroked her thumbnail over the soft lashes surrounding those shining eyes–each lash appeared to be embedded in the lids.Perhaps there was more to the doll than what she’d originally believed. Promising herself to do a little Internet search in the morning, she turned off the bedroom light and climbed into bed.Her head no sooner hit the pillow than she heard something drop to the floor. The sound was soft, but solid.
She sighed and reached to turn on the bedside lamp. Glancing in the direction of the sound, she scanned the floor, but found nothing out of place. Only mildly perturbed, Mallory reached for the light then paused. Her gaze flicked to the bookcase. Her new doll wasn’t on the shelf where she’d placed it.
Dammit. She’d never sleep until it was back where it belonged. She crawled from the bed and searched the floor beneath the shelf. Nothing. She pulled out her desk chair to see if it had somehow tumbled beneath her desk. “Weird,” she said under her breath as she pushed the chair back into place.
A skittering sounded in the closet beside the shelf, and her heart rate accelerated. “What the hell?” The sound was too small to be a hidden intruder. Wary, she approached the closet. The door was open only a crack. Did she have a mouse? The mystery over the doll was forgotten as she worried how she’d trap it. Inching the door open, she reached inside for the string attached to the lamp on the ceiling.
A loud thump came from the back of the closet, and Mallory jumped back. Too freaking big to be a mouse. Fuck! She backed up two steps, and then ran for the bedroom door.
Before she’d gone three steps, something pounced on her back, taking her to the carpet. Hands wrapped around her wrists, pinning them to the floor. Mallory bucked, panic making her breaths come in short, shallow sobs.
“Don’t be afraid,” purred a feminine voice from right beside her ear.
The raspy quality of the voice caressed nerves Mallory chose to ignore. “Get off me,” she ground out.
“I think I’ll stay here for a moment. I don’t want you bolting again, because I wouldn’t like to hurt you. You smell good.”
“What the fuck were you doing in my closet? What do you want?”
The body covering her back resettled, curves molding to Mallory’s. “I’m not sure why I’m here. Are you a witch?” The woman’s hips undulated, grinding against Mallory’s ass.
Which made it very hard to think. “Am I a wha–”
A snarl sounded. “Just shut up a second. I can’t think.” A rumbling purr vibrated against her, growing louder as the woman on her back nuzzled her neck.
“What are you doing?” Mallory asked in a very small voice, wondering if she was going to be raped by the woman and why that thought didn’t terrify her more.
“Mmm… I’m doing what I couldn’t when you groomed me.”
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The Contest
Hope you enjoyed! Leave an answer to the following question in the comments and you’ll be entered to win a copy of any of the shorties in the Amazon carousel below EXCEPT Catnip. That one, I hope you’ll purchase on your own!
So if I decide to write some really naughty, taboo stories, what themes would you love to read? I’m taking orders! 🙂
UPDATE: The winner of one a free shorty from among those stories spinning in my carousel is…Carey Sabala!
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It’s Saturday, but I’m up early today. I’m going to a Gelli class at 9 AM with my dd and my mom. What is Gelli you might ask? It’s a printing plate made of this wiggly gel that you brayer on paint, texturize the paint with stencils or your own scribbles, then you place paper over the painted/scribbled-on plate and “pull off” a colorful printed image that you can use in mixed media art. Whew. Taking a breath after that really long sentence! And for most you, what I said didn’t mean a thing. But that’s okay. We’re going to have fun.
What can you do while I’m off playing with Gellis and paint? How about read a naughty story or two. There’s time if the story’s short! And you know what I’m going to talk about now…
I started at the end of January publishing a short story a week in the Kindle store. For Kindle Unlimited subscribers, they are free. For everyone else, they are $0.99. I have all these shorts I’ve written over, and other than grouping them in collections, and publishing them that way, I had no way for you to enjoy them. Until KU made it possible for me to get a little compensation for my effort and a nifty way for readers to “sample my wares.” It’s been fun getting each of these short stories ready for publication. I hope you’ve tried a few. Or if you have a really dead weekend, you could sample them all!
If you’d like to savor the pretty covers, I have a web page devoted to my “shorties.”
Here’s yesterday’s new addition:
The Pleasure in Surrender
After the lady of the keep bars her gates to the barbarian the king commands she wed, the half-Viking knight scales the walls of her heart…
Excerpt:
A draft brushed her face. She’d closed the door and latched the pigskin curtain over her narrow window. A scuff of a foot had her stiffening, but she heard no more above the pounding of her heart. She wasn’t alone. “Who’s there?” she whispered.
“I think you know,” came a deep, rumbling drawl.
She drew a deep breath and came up slowly, scooting to the far side of her bed. Her knife was on her chatelaine’s belt hanging from a peg beside the door. She was weaponless. “My people?”
“Your man Geade surrendered as soon as he realized the keep was overrun. No one was harmed.”
“How?”
“Does it matter? I’ve taken this castle. The only question now is one I want answered: Why did you bar the gates?”
Edwina shivered at his graveled voice. “I was promised time to grieve before I accepted another husband.”
“Alred suspected you would grieve until you were old. Did you really think he would defy the king’s order for you?”
She lifted her chin although she knew the gesture couldn’t be seen—not unless Vikings had eyes like cats. “I expected him to honor his promise. I paid for the privilege.”
“About that—he returned the gold. To me.” His footsteps drew nearer her bed. “But that doesn’t answer the question. Why, Edwina?”
Her mouth grew dry at the rasping texture of his deep voice. She swallowed and set her back against the wall. “I wed once for political expediency. This time, I wanted a choice.”
He remained silent for a long moment. “And yet you have turned away every suitor who approached you.”
“None were worthy.”
“You hold yourself in such high esteem?”
“I worried for my people. Warriors don’t make the best farmers.”
His footsteps scraped closer.
She pressed harder against cold stone.
“I will admit, I’ve little experience with farming. But I understood you were competent. That I could rely on you to teach me.”
He said the words slowly, and she tried to read his intentions in the inflections of his voice. Could he be telling her the truth? Would he allow her to continue as steward of her land? “Are we…negotiating?”
After a long moment, he cleared his throat. “You wed young.”
“I had no choice, but Malcolm was malleable and a drunk. We came to an arrangement that suited us both. I managed the estate. He drank and caroused, spending from a generous budget. We were both satisfied.”
“You managed him and the estate.”
“Yes.”
After a pause, he said, “I’m not malleable. Nor will I be managed.”
She heard the steel in his tone. She forced a derisive note into her own. “I was afraid of that. It’s why I closed the gates and prepared for a siege.”
He strode closer. His large shadow was inky black, ominous. “You do realize this is our wedding night? You are already my wife by the king’s decree. Only consummation awaits.”
Alarm rattled through her. “But there must be a wedding. The banns should be read.”
“No, Edwina. Your resistance ends tonight.”
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The Contest
Hope you enjoyed! Leave an answer to the following question in the comments and you’ll be entered to win a copy of any of the shorties in the Amazon carousel below EXCEPT The Pleasure in Surrender. That one, I hope you’ll purchase on your own!
Are you artistic, or like me, do you wish you were? And like me, do you dabble?
First one was shortly after my very first erotic short story was published in Best Women’s Erotic 2000. (Yes, we are going back a bit.) I was at some corporate function or other – before the dh retired I went to quite a few as I am a really nice wife. Anyway I was talking to a group of similarly really nice wives, when a young woman, I’d only just met said, ‘I understand you write erotica.’ Now, all I knew about her (other than that she was also a company wife) was she’d once been a Baptist missionary. So, bracing myself for some sort of lecture or snide look, I replied in the affirmative, and waited. She asked the title of the anthology. I told her, keeping my voice as neutral as I could but biding my time to pick up the cudgels, if necessary. Then, to my astonishment, she went on the tell me how, by the time they got their three small children to bed, she and her dh were exhausted and to liven things, they used to read each other erotica to ignite the spark.
