Monday, December 17, 2012

The Most Romantic, Sexiest Thing I've Read This Week

I'm as guilty of it as anyone.

When I don't feel sexy--don't feel attractive, don't have the energy, don't feel right in my own skin--I don't want to have sex. More often than not, this really is a case of "It's not you; it's me." It's me whom I'm unhappy with in those moments and has little to do with my partner. I don't like my weight. I don't like my skin. I don't like my hair. I don't like that creeping feeling of blah dragging me under.

And, for the most part, I think that's completely legit. I don't think one should have to have sex when they aren't feeling sexy. And, perhaps, I tend to take it for granted, seeing that I have a demanding libido that tends to kick my ass back out of its funk fairly quickly. But a part of me does recognize that that feeling, more so than anything about my size, skin, hair, or life, is the ugly part.That the indulgent irrationality of it hurts not just my partner, but me as well.

So when I read this article, it really made me think:

If She Can Do It...

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Have Yourself a Kinky, Little Christmas - Part Two

If you want to find out what happens next with Chris & Danielle in this story, please check out the rest of "Tugging Reins" in Under the Mistletoe from Coming Together. 

Coming Together: Under the Mistletoe is a celebration of December first through the thirty-first, from the North Pole to the Antarctic. You'll meet couples changing up the meaning of spin the dreidel, deciding the fate of their marriage on Hogmanay, finding new love in a dystopian future, among many more. The poets will make you laugh, and maybe even cry.

Coming Together: Under the Mistletoe is a collection of erotic fiction & poetry edited by Delilah Night. Proceeds benefit Project Linus. Table of Contents: Santa, Kinky (Blacksilk) Kid Comet (Delilah Night) All I Want for Christmas is Sex (Sheryl Collins) Carpe Marine Christmas Package (Muffy Wilson) Silver Bells (M. Marie) Tugging Reins (Sonni de Soto) The Twelve Days of Christmas (DJK) Strip Dreidel (Rob Rosen) Under the Mistletoe (Ramona Thompson) Accosting Santa (Sommer Marsden) A Thaw in Midwinter (Blacksilk) The Green Lady (James Malin) A Christmas Eve in Snow (Marcia Conover) Summer in December (Tamsin Flowers) Patriarchal Winter Night's Dream (Jaylan Salah) Hush (Maria Duendi) Winter's Majesty (Stacy Savage) Christmas in Minneapolis (CeCe Marsh) The Road on a Winter Hike (Sarah Jaylan) Baby, It's Hot Outside (Delilah Night) Frosty (Corbin A. Grace) Adrenaline Rush (Robert Buckley) Goosebumps (Stacy Savage) Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot? (Ashe Barker)

Let your feel-good do some good with this charity anthology, whose proceeds go to Project Linus!


Please check out my story and get ready for some fit-on-the-streets-but-fun-in-the-sheets, pervertable play this PRIDE!

Please check out my novel Show Me, Sir from Sinful Press that celebrates feminist kink!

See what happens after Kat & Peter's happy ending in my story from Deep Desire Press!
And Listen to an Excerpt

Please check out my story in this hand-held library of erotica & explore to your libido's content!

Check out my story “Pervertable” to see how sexy food shopping can be in this gleefully, greedily gluttonous anthology from Sexy Little Pages.
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Please check out my story, "Safeword," in this new anthology from SinCyr Publishing, where women reclaim and recognise their power in myriad ways, and it's not always pretty. 
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If it exists, someone’s kinky for it! Check out my story in SinCyr Publishing's anthology that takes a walk on the weird side: you won’t regret it.

Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!

Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

Have Yourself a Kinky, Little Christmas - Part One

Tugging Reins – 
A Christmas Short Story – 
Part One

Chris Carey snuck into the back of the private party room. All alone, he’d timed it perfectly to arrive exactly fifteen minutes late to the large-chain restaurant—the kind with all the kitschy movie and sports memorabilia hanging from the walls—hoping to be the last person there. And, just as he’d expected, no one in the crowded, boisterous room noticed him as he slid, shoulders slumped in on himself, into a seat at the far end of the room.

A munch, huh?

It wasn’t what he’d been expecting. When he’d thought about kinky parties, he imagined lots of leather and equipment and…well, kink.

And, true, this wasn’t a party, per se. Not a play party anyway. More like a meet-up. A mixer. It reminded him of his college orientation actually. A room full of people whom he didn’t know, wasn’t sure how to get to know, and wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to know.

But he wanted to know about kink. And all the sites he’d been to—the good ones anyway—had said that munches were the way to go. To get a foot in the BDSM door.

So he’d come.

Adjusting his glasses, he watched from the back as a black woman—tall and beautiful with a brash, throaty laugh he could hear over the sound of the chatter in the room—stood up and grabbed the room’s attention. Another woman, a fellow redhead like him—plump but pretty like a cross between a Rubens’s painting and a pin-up girl all wrapped up in a business suit—stood next to her.

Chris half-listened as the women made introductions and announcements, pointing out moderators and giving dates for fall classes and events. Mostly, he studied the room. Adjusting his glasses, he noticed that there was such an odd mix of people. At twenty-two, he was among the youngest in attendance—definitely the youngest male. Most of the men in the room were in their thirties and forties. There were even men in their fifties—maybe even sixties.

Most of the women were young still—a fact he definitely noticed. While there was still a wide range of ages among the women, the median age hovered somewhere in the late twenties. Idly, he wondered if that boded well or worse for him.

He knew that the open invite on their site had said that, if one wanted to become a member of Donovan’s—the local kink club—they ought to establish a good reputation within the community as a whole. He needed at least three references from current members before he could even be considered for membership. And munches were a good way to form connections.

But Chris wasn’t great at establishing connections. Kind of quiet, he tended to keep to himself, finding his books better company than other people. 

But even the best books couldn’t quite provide what he was looking for, just couldn’t satisfy the growing desire he felt with every site he visited and every book he read on it. A real experience.

But, as his gaze flicked from person to person in the room, anxiety warred with desire. How was he supposed to know who was a current member and who were just the curious and uninitiated like him? He supposed he could ask, but what was the proper protocol for that? Chris sighed as he bit his lip and ran a hand over his close-cropped, red hair. He wished he’d paid better attention to the women who’d announced the moderators.

Swallowing hard, he unbuttoned the first button of his polo shirt and felt sweat collect on the back of his neck. He should leave. Maybe read a little more about all of this before trying again. 

Yes, research. 

More research was exactly what he needed. He was sure of it. He’d do better next time.

He waited until the waiters started to make their way around the room, taking food orders while the plain-clothes kinksters mingled, before slipping out of the room again, as unseen leaving as he’d been entering.


Chris almost groaned audibly when he heard the snooty, know-it-all voice coming from the other side of the bookshelves. He let his head fall forward and his shoulders stoop low. Oh, just what he didn’t need. After a day filled with classes, he really hadn’t wanted to come to work. As much as he loved books, Cover To Cover was not where he wanted to be. 

Especially if Danielle Atali was working.

Danielle was a holiday employee. Temporary. Transitory. A rare, posh, private-school, rich kid slumming it in retail hell. Really only here for the holiday discount and a place to go between semesters while she stayed with her parents during break, she worked—maybe—ten hours a week while school was still in session. 

Not that you could tell from her attitude. She acted like she were a manager and had the tendency to treat him like a subordinate despite the fact that he’d been working here for four years to help pay for college and not the four weeks between the Thanksgiving season and Christmas.

And she was rude! To her coworkers and the customers. Sure that she knew better than everyone. Knew what you should read. Knew how things ought to be stocked and displayed. 

They’d had to completely redo the front holiday display because—being Jewish—Danielle had felt personally slighted by how small and shoved-to-the-side the Chanukah portion of the display was. Never mind that she was non-practicing or that she thought the whole holiday season was recycled, crass, over-commercialized crap. She’d called the regional director and even emailed corporate anyway.

She was stubborn.

“No,” he heard her say over the highly stacked books, “you don’t want that book. The author of Steele’s Edge is a frigid, old cow with no idea what she’s talking about.”

There she went again. Frustrated, he took off his glasses to press his fingers against his eyes, hoping to relieve the tension pressing behind them.

With an internal growl, he sighed, put back his glasses, and began to make his way around the shelves to save the sale she was killing.

“Now this book,” he heard her say with cocksure certainty, “is much better. The man who wrote this, unlike Elliette Roberts, has not only actually had sex in more than the missionary position, he’s also taken more than an intro to creative writing class at the annex.”

Straightening, Chris held his breath for a second before turning the corner. Oh God. Did she just say what he thought she’d said? What section where they in? 

Not romance—that was closer to the front, next to science fiction and fantasy. Not self-help and relationships—that was on the other side of the store, near cooking and home repair. 

Chris looked up at the genre labels on the sides of the shelves. Cultural studies and alternative lifestyles.

Oh God.

His shoulders fell in shock. He knew where they were. 

Cover To Cover boasted an incredibly broad variety of books for a mid-level, local chain, used bookstore in a mall by the beach. In a trendy, more artsy community, it stocked in harder-to-find, niche genres and topics.

“But, if you’re looking for really good fetish writing,” he heard Danielle say with startling authority, “I would suggest not going the fiction route and dive straight into the more memoir-ish books. You’ll get less of the softcore fluffy stuff and the shock-value hardcore mess in favor of just real, honest kink.”

Sexual health and instruction. 

A section Chris knew very well.

Not that he’d ever bought a book from that section at Cover To Cover. Despite his employee discount, Chris had never used—would never use—it to buy those books at his job. If he could help it, he never even passed that part of the store. As if being in its presence would somehow point to that part of him that felt pulled to it. As if it would know him. Would recognize him. And, seeing them together, everyone else would know too.

“Hey, Carey,” Danielle said as she shoved an armload of books into his arms, knocking his glasses askew and forcing his slouching shoulders back as he balanced the stack of books, “do me a favor and ring up this customer, will you? Credit me for the sale though, ‘kay?” She smiled at him, reaching up to straighten his glasses condescendingly. Her smile widened even when her dark brown eyes twinkled pointedly. Knowingly. “Thanks.”

Chris glared at her, wondering exactly what she thought she knew. He watched her saunter away, rearranging the holiday display and mixing Santas with menorahs and dreidels with elves, before he turned to the sixty-ish woman next to him.

“She’s a wonderful saleswoman, isn’t she?” The woman who reminded him far too much of his own grandmother—and there was a thought that he didn’t want to think about—let out a wistful sigh.

“Yeah,” he grumbled, shifting the books in his arms so he could fix his glasses, before trudging to the counter to ring the old woman up.

It was because she was pretty, that was why Danielle thought she could push people around. Twist them around her little finger. Make them jump at her every word.

Don’t get him wrong. Danielle was pretty. Beautiful. Tall—a couple of inches taller than him—and sturdily built, she had the kind of body that invited the imagination. More often than he would like, Chris found himself wondering what she looked like out of her shapeless Cover To Cover smock. Did the deep arch of her back sweep sweet the way he pictured in his head? Was her ass soft and full or tight and firm? What color were her nipples?

Often, he would try to imagine her naked, her cloud of riotous black curls storming around her shoulders. But, having seen precious few naked women outside of the polished borders of a photo or the altered frames of film, his mind always fuzzed on the details.

Oh, he knew the exact shape of her wide, dark, expressive eyes. Knew the slick slide of her painted mouth, always smeared with dark, glossy color that left the lingering taste of berries or sweet mulled wine in his mind. Had memorized the curve of her smile and the form and feel—however brief and perfunctory—of her hands.

Everything else…his mind seemed content to fill in the blanks with hazy remnants of fantasy. Under her boxy smock, Danielle—he imagined—would have the proportions of a pin-up girl. Would moan like a porn star. And would bow to his whim like a nubile slave.

“Hey, Carey,” she said, that slick, lipsticked mouth set in her usual smirk, “bring that box of Santa crap back to the storage room, will you? I’m going to grab some books from the new age section; I think the front display could use some winter solstice pizzazz.”

Chris grumbled inaudibly and moved from the counter to grab the box. 

“Oh,” she added over her shoulder while she brazenly waltzed back to the religion section like she owned the place, “and turn off that damned muzak disc; if I hear some pop star butcher ‘Jingle Bells’ one more time, I’m going to go crazy.”

Box in hand, Chris kept walking, pretending to not have heard that last bit.


Chris, determined to do this munch-thing right this time, tried a new tactic. Arriving fifteen minutes early, he’d waited in the restaurant—a spacious, upscale, fast food chain this time—on the lookout for the moderators, while he nervously nibbled at the food that, despite his usually voracious appetite, he’d ordered more to look like he belonged than out of any kind of hunger. This time, he would try to snag a seat at their table. 

He knew the main munch moderators, Pip Jones and Max Wells, from Donovan’s website. Had seen their pictures and read blurbs and searched them on the internet. He’d even sent them a couple of emails, introducing himself and telling them that he’d be at the munch. He’d also asked a few questions about etiquette and protocol.

He was prepared this time.

He sat up, stiff-spined, when he heard the door open. Max Wells, the Rubenesque redhead, walked in with an Asian-looking guy with weird hair followed by Pip Jones, the brazen black woman. 

And Danielle.

Chris sucked in a hissing breath. What was she doing here?

He watched her talked animatedly with Pip Jones, both women laughing while they wove their way through the tables.

Chris shrunk in his seat, curling his body inward, and stared steadfastly at the half-eaten food still in front of him—what little hunger he’d felt before completely gone now—hoping to go unnoticed. How could this be happening to him? He must just have the absolute worst of luck. 


Idly, he wondered what the opposite of a Christmas miracle was before he gritted his teeth and turned to look at Danielle. “Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Carey?” Max Wells turned around. “Chris Carey?”

Chris just blinked behind his slightly smudged lenses as his shoulders lowered and his head popped up curiously. They remembered him?

“The guy who emailed us?” Pip Jones asked with a curious smile. “Like, six times?”

He winced and stooped low again. Were they laughing at him?

His jaw clenched and he felt his breath choke in his throat.

They’d emailed him back, thanking him for his interest and his questions and promising to chat with him at the munch. Had they been making fun of him while they wrote him back? Digitally laughing behind his back?

“Welcome.” Max Wells stuck out her hand, an inviting smile on her face. “Wanna come back to the party room and help us set up? Maybe we can answer some of those questions you had.”

With his face flushing almost unbearably hot, he lifted a lowered shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, not knowing what else to do at that point but follow them. Together they all pushed tables and chairs together and talked. 

About who you called Master and Mistress and when. “Never call anyone by a title automatically;” Pip had said with a tsk, “there are few things more awkward than someone acting as if they’re in-scene before anyone has agreed to anything. I’m not anyone’s Mistress and I’m sure as hell not anyone’s slave, assuming that I am on first meeting…well, it’s making an ass out of someone and it sure isn’t me.”

About how you go about finding play partners. “It’s a lot like finding any kind of partner,” Max had told him. “There’s no magic formula. No secret passcodes. You just go up to a person and talk to them, just one person to another. Be nice and fun and put your best foot forward. And, if they think you’re a good time and you think they’re a good time, maybe something could develop. And, even if it doesn’t, at least you both still had a good time.”

About how you know what you’re into. “You just try stuff,” Danielle had said with a shrug. “Something you read about in a book. Or something you heard about from a friend. Or something the person you’re with wants to give a go. You just give it a shot, see how it feels. If you don’t like it, don’t do it again. If you do,” she’d shrugged again, “jackpot.”

Read Part Two Here

Friday, December 7, 2012

Even If I Say It, Don't Stop - Part Two

Inline image 1
The Framework of Fantasy 
– Part Two
Read Part One Here

Read the rest of "The Framework of Fantasy" in this amazing anthology from Cleis Press!

Whether you're simply curious about submission or regularly revel in the delights of BDSM, these sixty-nine erotic short stories about submissives will turn you on! From participating in a musical recital that takes a very kinky turn to making a grocery run while using sex toys to indulging in a risqué office encounter during working hours, these subs delight in obeying (or deliberately disobeying) their masters and mistresses in public and in private. They're rewarded and punished the most wicked of ways that will leave you breathless. Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, with stories by Selena Kitt, Jade A. Waters, Dorothy Freed, and Sommer Marsden, among other talented writers, The Big Book of Submission, Volume 2 offers arousing tales that delve deep into the thrills of spanking, bondage, power dynamics, service, exhibitionism, erotic adventure, and much more.


Please check out my story in The Sexy Librarian's anthology that gives us a bold peek into lust and love from the male perspective!

Please check out Coming Together's defiant, charity anthology that celebrates diversity and equality!
And Listen to an Excerpt

Please check out my story in this hand-held library of erotica & explore to your libido's content!

Sometimes really it sucks being female! Please check out my feminist, space alien novella from Less Than Three Press! Available Now On
And Listen to an Excerpt
Check out my story to dive deep into all the awkward excitement of sexual exploration.

Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!

Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

Thursday, December 6, 2012

When That Lovin' Feeling Fades

It's a favorite topic of mine. I've done far too much research on it. From the Diplozoon paradoxum, parasites who smush themselves together until nothing of one exists that isn’t at least in part part of the other--sadly the only proven monogamous creature in existence--to evolutionary biological theories on the size and shape of the human "plunger penis" that claims we're designed to cheat.

It's a reality that's very hard to deny, that the love and romance that stories have promised us since our Disney-filled childhoods...don't last forever after. That love too often ends. That passion inevitably fades. That we aren't built or wired for the kind of love so many of us long for.

Do enough research and it's hard to remember why one would seek love at all, given marriage failure rates and the rise of the cheating culture. Somewhere between our days of playing princess and adulthood, the dream of monogamy, marriage, and love have become such depressing topics. So often it feels as if, as Kate McKay said, that "maybe that whole love thing is just a grown-up version of Santa Claus; just a myth we've been fed since childhood. So, we keep buying magazines, joining clubs, and doing therapy and watching movies with hit pop songs played over love montages all in a pathetic attempt to explain why our love Santa keeps getting caught in the chimney."

So, yes, it was nice to read an article about the topic that didn't seem defeatist, didn't seem to roll over and accept the death of the dream. Didn't just assume that we're creatures of impluse and hormones without will over our biological wiring. That instead offered hope strengthened by hard work and dedication. That threw out the thought that a dream held since childhood is a dream worth at least a little effort before calling it quits.

New Love - A Short Shelf Life

Monday, December 3, 2012

Tie Me Up, Please - Part Two

One Man's Treasure – Part Two
Read Part One Here
 I thought it would be fun to release this back history story. This is Max's first real kinky experience long before Show Me, Sir ever took place. Hopefully, it can give you a little perspective on how she became who she is. Please, enjoy.

Ah, yeah. His heart skipped and his cock jerked. He was panting. And he didn’t care. He shuddered at the thrill of a playfully wicked woman wielding her weapon at his helpless form. His body tugged against his bonds, feeling the chair waver without giving.

Max pulled at his shirt’s collar, fisting the material in one hand, forcing him forward. He tipped his head back, baring his neck, as she brought the scissors down. He wished he could see it as it slipped beneath the worn, white cotton but, from this angle, all he could do is picture it in his head. He imagined he could feel the cold of the steel against his skin. The slightest prick of the scissors’ point at his throat. 

He hissed and tensed as he heard the squealing, metallic scratch as the scissors sliced through his shirt. He looked down at the small slit as Max laid aside the scissors. He groaned as she gripped the two sides of the rip in her tight fists before yanking, rending his shirt in half. His chest heaved as she bared him. His back bowed as awareness—a heightened rush—hit him.

“Better,” she mused as she ran her hands—just the hint of her nails—down his chest. “Definitely better.”

“Miss Fair Play,” he grunted out as her fingers dipped just beneath the elastic of his gym shorts, “how about a little turnabout?” 

She smiled and nodded concedingly before she lowered onto all fours. Crawling up his legs, she straddled his thighs. Her hot core settled and rubbed against his hardening cock. He groaned as her hips dipped, pressing herself harder against him, fitting their bodies tightly. 

She caught his gaze, holding it daringly. “Don’t look down,” she purred as she reached for the hem of her shirt. 

Oh, that was mean. 

He grinned as he steadfastly locked his gaze on hers. Even as the hint of bared flesh teased his periphery, he kept his eyes up. Almost out of his vision, he could see the tempting flash of soft, round tummy. The decadent dip of her navel. Dear God, the rise of her full, lush, stacked breasts. 

The nipples got him. He was fine until those pink nipples, flushed a deep rose, peeked out from beneath the rising material, drawing his gaze magnetically down. He couldn’t help it. 

Maybe he was weak.

She laughed as she tossed her tank top aside. “You’re so easy.”

Was that better or worse than weak?

And did it even matter when her perfect breasts were all but in his face?

He leaned forward—pulled his form almost painfully taut—to capture one nipple in his mouth. He suckled her as she wriggled over his lap. He was switching to the other when she began skinning off her shorts and panties. But he barely got his lips around the sweet bud before she pulled out of reach, discarding the cloth in her hand with a quick flick over her shoulder. He pouted, disappointed, until he felt her hands skimming his shorts down. With a relieved sigh, he lifted his hips. 

His whole body jerked as she freed his semi-hard dick. She smiled as she wrapped her hand around him. He moaned as her warm hand squeezed. She stroked him, slow and sweet. Teasing him with it as she stared into his heated gaze. With slow deliberateness, she leaned down to take him into her mouth, watching him watch her.

She sucked him deep into her mouth, laving him with her tongue. He lifted his knee slightly to press against her hot, damp pussy, making her moan around his shaft—a sound he could feel deep in his gut. She gyrated against him, grinding her clit and slick lips into his knee.

His back arched as he let his head fall back onto the chair’s densely stuffed cushion. Ah, damn, it was good. She was good. The feel of her mouth on his cock was mind-robbing, a lick of fire against his senses. God, he wanted to grab her head. Wanted to bury his fingers in those fiery strands and move her. Faster. Harder. Wanted to hold her to him. 

His wrists wrenched against his bonds, begging for freedom. His body pulled the chair millimeters forward, dug it deep into his back. “Max,” he grunted, the sound a guttural plea. “Max.”

She gave him one last, long suck, pulling every thought and feeling in him down with every move of that delectable mouth. Then she released him, making him cry out in a maddening mix of relief and disappointment as she left him.

And then she was there, sliding a condom on him. It shouldn’t have been so exciting. The act itself so perfunctory and matter-of-fact. A necessary and ordinarily ordinary task. Done with more haste than seduction. But, because it meant an end, a release—his release—every touch felt like a caress.

And, when she finally lifted herself over him, coming to kneel over his lap as if it were an altar, he whispered husky words of gratitude like prayer. Her wet pussy gripped him as she sank his cock deep inside her. Her arousal like molten lust as he thrust his hips up in grateful, greedy greeting.

His fingers dug into the cheap carpet’s shag as she rode him, her slick sheath so tight as her strong legs lifted her up and down on his willing body. He bucked beneath her too but, bound, he could only move so much. 

It should have been restricting. Frustrating. 

But, instead of wishing the ties away, Rob felt as if they heightened everything. Made him forget about finesse or impressing Max with moves or positions. Took him—as a lover, an actor—out of the equation. So used to fucking a woman, he was now being fucked. Those simple strips of cloth were making him face his pleasure. No holds. No bars. No responsibility. No control.

Pure freedom.

Pure pleasure.

With an almost painful cry, he came. Without choice. Without will. Without mercy, his climax ripped through him as he arched against the heavy, unmovable chair.

Incapable of thought for long moments, he just breathed, letting the intense sensations flow through him. He had never come so hard. Never felt so replete. He’d never felt so supremely satisfied.

She hadn’t come though. He regretted that. Or would. When he could think again. He’d make it up to her. Later. When he could remember how to move. 

She’d done this for him. He knew that. She’d likely gotten little more than a crazy college-sex story. She hadn’t even climaxed. But, while no big deal for her, she had made his fantasy come true; he owed her at least an orgasm. 

Or forty. 

If she’d let him. 

Rob twitched as he felt Max reach for one of his wrists. Languidly, he turned to watch her untie his now stiff limbs. He shuddered as she rubbed at the now raw, marked skin where the ties had pulled tight. “Doesn’t that hurt?” she asked as she laid a gentle kiss just above the slightly bruised skin.

He shook his head. “A little sore,” he admitted, flexing his other arm as blood rushed freely again. A little sore, sure, but so worth it. He was going to make it up to her. Was going to show her how much he appreciated it. Appreciated her. 

He should find a way to do the same for her, to return the favor. 

He wanted to be worth the effort. Because—whatever she asked—this was worth it.

So he wrapped his still stiff arms around her, cuddling her close. He kissed the top of her head, the soft, vibrant strands tickling his face. “So,” he asked her, his voice still raspy with slated lust, “what’s one of your fantasies?”

Please check out my novel Show Me, Sir from Sinful Press that celebrates feminist kink!

Please check out my story in The Sexy Librarian's anthology that gives us a bold peek into lust and love from the male perspective!
Available Now On

Your Choice of TheseDigital Stores

Please check out my novel The Taming School from Sizzler Editions that explores discovering kink!
Available Now On

If it exists, someone’s kinky for it! Check out my story in SinCyr Publishing's anthology that takes a walk on the weird side: you won’t regret it.

Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!

Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!