No Publish No Problem

I decided not to publish any stories in the month of August.  This doesn’t mean I have stopped writing.

I did this for a two reasons.

  1. August sales were getting off to a slow start
  2. I wanted a few books “in the chamber” for when I started publishing again in September.

By having a few books in the chamber I have the liberty to take a week off if necessary during the next couple of months.  It just made sense to hoard a few stories for the month of August since this is generally one of the worse selling months for self publishing author’s, and these books are better served being released during busy months.

The funny thing is, sales have gone up since I made this decision.  I haven’t released a single book, yet my sales are on track to beat July.  Of course by saying this I probably just jinxed myself, but oh well.  It’s still good to know I can leave the self publishing game alone at times and still bring in sales.

How To Constantly Come Up With New Erotica Stories

To be successful writing erotica you need to find the right niche & write original stories.

Generic stories about the plain jane capturing the heart of the alpha millionaire, biker, jock etc.  has been done to death.  They may still work for romance novels, but not erotica.

Erotica readers want specific sexual kinks and a half decent story that hasn’t been rehashed a thousands times over.

How does one continuously come up with original stories?

  1.  Take a walk through you’re city/town:  Stories are everywhere you just have to look for them.  Take notice of you’re environment.  Maybe the abandoned warehouse you pass on the street is meeting place for a sex cult.  Maybe the couple in the cafe are debating whether they should go to the swingers party they we’re invited to.  Let your imagination run wild.  You’ll never people watch the same way again.
  2. Mix Match List:  This is my personal go to when I’m having trouble coming up with a new story.  I take a sheet of paper and divide it into four columns – kink/sex act, setting, character, and emotion.  Underneath each column I write 10-15 words.  After I feel I have enough words under each column I mix and match the words so I have a total random combination of kink/sex act, setting, character, and emotion.  I use the combination of the four words and try to base a story around it.  This usually gives me some interesting results and plot lines I have never seen done before.  This exercise takes all of 5 minutes.

Just remember, erotica readers want something they haven’t read before.  Yes, erotica is first and foremost about the sex, but that doesn’t mean readers don’t want a little plot with their porn.

Most erotic authors fail because they try to copy a story that has gained popularity.  The problem with this is a number of others erotic authors are doing the same thing, trying to cash in on the flavor of the month.  By being original, you will stand out from the pack.

 

 

“200 Crappy Words A Day” (More Advice To Aspiring Erotic Authors)

“200 crappy words a day.”  I don’t who said it, but I’ve seen this quote floating around the interweb on a few occasions.

Why 200?

The idea is that if the person set a small easy goal like “200 crappy words a day” than it would build momentum.

Writing a 1000 words a day seems daunting.  So daunting, that the person may never even attempt to try.  But “200 crappy words” is more than manageable.  After all, they don’t even have to be good words.

When you first start writing resistance will hit you like a ton of bricks.  You have all these great ideas,  all these things you want to write about.  You can even imagine your bank account growing as people buy copy after copy of your short stories.

But now it comes time to actually write.  You sit down and all those great ideas fade away.  You try to type but words won’t flow.  You think to yourself how am I ever going to write my first short if I can’t even muster up one measly paragraph?

You become discouraged.  Distracted.  Maybe if I just do something else I’ll get a creative spark.  The cursor blinks on an empty page.  You haven’t written a thing.

You may be thinking how do I know all this?

It’s because your problem is not unique.  It happens to every writer.  It happens to me.  It probably even happened to Ernest fucking Hemingway.

This is called resistance, and it’s something that every writer will continually have to conquer.

When you first start writing resistance is particularly strong.  I remember when I first started writing even penning “200 crappy words” was difficult.  However, if I was able to push on I would gain momentum.

Maybe the next writing session I was able to pen 500.  A week later I could write 1000.  A crappy 1000, but still 1000.

It took me three days to write my first erotic short and it was barely 3,000 words long, and it sucked.  Two months later I was finishing a 3k short in a day.  A year later I was cranking out 5-6 short stories a week with ease.

Then again there are still days when I write that I feel like an armless, legless person with a crayon in my mouth.

I push on.  I set small word count goals.  If I don’t feel like writing I’ll just trick myself into it.  Just sit down and write 200 words I tell myself.  Those 200 words usually turn into much more.  I gain momentum.

This is how you should approach writing when you’re first starting out or even if you’re a seasoned vet.  You need to trick yourself into it.  Just remember “200 crappy words.”  If that’s too daunting make it 100.  Hell, make it 50.  Just get your ass in the seat and start typing.   50 words may not seem like much but it adds up.  If you sat down and typed just 50 words each day you would have an 18,250 word novella by the end of year.

Start off small.  Build momentum.  Don’t make unattainable goals for yourself.  Don’t think you need to write 5-6 shorts per week.  This type of thinking will crush you in the beginning, resistance will get stronger and you’ll give up before you even start.

Always remember, “200 crappy words per day.”

 

Keep A Few Books In The Chamber

I was optimistic with the way August started.  The first two days sales were good.  Since that point sales have slowed to a crawl.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.  Last August was the same thing.  It was one of the my worst months in terms of sales even though it was one of my most productive months in terms of writing.

Note to self:  Let August be a month to coast a little.  For the rest of August I will not release another book or bundle.  I may promote a few of my older titles for free.  I will continue writing, but not as much.  My goals is to have a few books in the chamber for when I start writing full time again in September.

It’s always good to have a few books in the chamber if things get hectic one week.  This means you can still release books even if you weren’t able to get anything done that week.

Sales should pick up again in September, and it should only go up from there *knocks on wood.*  Maybe August is good time to ease back and let the creative mind rest before I start cranking out stories again in the fall & winter.  For the next couple months I won’t have the opportunity to take it easy so it’s best to slack off now when potential readers are enjoying the end of summer instead of short story smut.

6 Ways To Become A More Productive Erotic Author

When writing erotica you don’t want anything to hinder your volume. The key to success for a no name self published erotic author is VOLUME.

Remember you’re not writing the next great American novel.  You’re writing short stories to get people off.  Usually these stories will be in the 3,000-5,000 word range.

If your serious about making money with erotica you should treat it like a business.  This means setting aside time to write, whether you feel like it or not.  You should value this time.  It’s a time for writing and writing only.

Of course, this is easier said than done.  Distractions pop up.  Phone calls, twitter feeds, and noisy roommates can kill productivity.  It’s important that distractions like these are nipped in the bud.  Here are a few ways to eliminate distractions and become a more productive erotic author:

1. Pomodoro Technique:  Set your writing time into twenty five minute blocks with 5 minute rest periods. After you have completed 4 twenty five minute blocks take an extended break of fifteen minute, and repeat.

I like the Pomodoro Technique because it helps you get into a rhythm while preventing burnout.  The twenty five minute blocks help build momentum.  You may only be able to get 200 words during the first block, but by the forth block you will be writing 500 plus words easily.  The words will begin to flow.  The 5 minute breaks are a good time to stretch, and aren’t long enough for you to get distracted by something else.

Need a Pomodoro timer?  There are many apps for that.

2.  Outline:  You don’t have to write a detailed rough draft for erotica, but it does help to have some semblance of an outline.

Write out the general plot, characters, setting, and any other research beforehand. Nothing breaks up the flow of writing like researching to make sure minor details are accurate.

3.  Edit Later:  I have to admit I don’t always follow this advice myself.  For some reason I feel the need to edit after every sentence.

When writing you’re aiming for uninterrupted streams of consciousness.  Some may call this flow state.  It’s where the magic happens.

Going back to look up the perfect word or correct grammatical errors will kill flow. When you write, just write.  Stop trying to be perfect.  You can edit it later.

4.  Block The Interweb: I don’t know about you, but I’m easily distracted and thrown off course.  I may tell myself I’m going to check my mail real quick, but two hours later I’m looking at Facebook pictures of someone I barely knew in high school.

If you’re like me, you shouldn’t even give yourself the option to get distracted.  Block the internet before it becomes a blackhole.  I use an extension called StayFocused.   This extension allows you to block “problem” websites for extended periods of time.

5.  Block Your Phone Too:  Don’t forget your phone too.  Put it on airplane mode.  Better yet, turn it off.

Phone calls and texts are another needless distraction.  Let’s face it, no one really needs to get in touch with you that bad.

6.  Work Space:  This isn’t necessary but it’s something to consider.  Your living space may be the perfect spot for you to work, but for some it’s just another distraction.  Noisy roommates, annoying partners, or little children can put a damper on writing time.

You may find it useful to rent a small studio space.  Usually you can find a decent spot for pretty cheap.  I was able to find a studio in a co working space for $105 a month.

Conclusion 

Being successful in erotica, or any genre, is about carving time out of each day to write, and defending that time against your own self sabotage.

P.S.  If you’re interested in becoming a more productive writer I suggest grabbing a copy of Steven Pressfield’s War of Art.  It’s the bible when it comes to breaking past creative hurdles and getting shit done.

If you’re interested in learning ways to succeed as an erotic author grab a copy of my book Confessions of an Erotic Author:  How to Write Smut That Sells

Niche Ideas For Erotic Authors

In my last post I urged aspiring erotic authors to write in as many different niches as possible.  It’s not so much what you like to write it’s about writing what the readers want.

Hopefully you can find a sweet spot of writing something you enjoy and also that sells well.

To help you find your niche I’ve decided to create a list.  Here are some of the common niches in erotica:

ABDL (adult baby diaper love):  adult that dresses/acts like baby.

BBW (big beautiful women):  Big curvy women and the men who can’t resist them.

Bimboification:  regular plain jane girls are turned into sex crazed bimbos.

Interracial:  Black men/ white women work the best, but white men/ black women can work too.  I don’t have much experience with other mixes.  

BDSM (Bondage Discipline Sadism Masochism):  Man is usually dom.  Woman is submissive and seeking it.  

Breeding:  May also go by the name of fertile or bareback.  Female is impregnated by human or monster.

Cuckolding:  Usually involves a man watching his wife having sex with another man.  Make  sure that you state that the man is seeking to watch instead of catching her cheating.  

Exhibitionism/Voyeurism:  These go hand in hand.  Either getting off on watching or being watched.

Monster:  Bigfoots, Aliens, Dinosaurs etc.  Mythological, Fantasy, or extinct creatures are acceptable only.  No animals!

Femdom:  Dominant women/ submissive men.  Men are humiliated.  

Historical:  Think Romans, Vikings, Westerns etc.

Lactation:  Women who lactate.  Also known as hucow.

Pseudoincest:  Stepfather – stepdaughter, stepsister – stepbrother etc.  Approach this niche at your own risk.  A lot of my books have been banned in this niche.

Medical:  exams that turn to sex.  Little experience in this niche.

Dubious Consent:  There’s a grey area here.  The “victim” is reluctant yet aroused at the same time.  Some call this rape-fantasy.  

Older man/younger woman or Older woman/younger man:  Silver foxes & virgins or MILFS & young studs

Shifter/Paranormal:  Think Twilight but with sex.  Werewolfs are popular here.

Lesbian/Gay

Spanking

There are many more, but this should be a good start.  Do some research on your own.  Look at a list of paraphilias.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advice To Aspiring Erotic Author

You should view your first 20 books as an experiment.

Don’t worry about choosing the perfect pen name.  Don’t bother setting up an author’s profile, a twitter account, blog etc.  You should focus on writing and writing only.  And don’t just write the stories you want to write either.  You should write in as many genres as possible.

Find Your Niche

Making money as an erotic author is a balance between writing original stories but also finding a niche that works for you.

If your thinking about starting a career writing erotica I suggest you go to Amazon’s Erotica’s Best Seller’s List, especially the URBAN section.  Take a look and see what some of the popular niches are.  Start writing in those niches.  Write a cuckolding, BDSM, or shifter story.  Explore some of the more obscures niches like femdom.  Combine different niches to together.

Eventually, you will find a niche that works for you.  This may take you 5 stories it may take you 30.  You’ll know you found it when your sales  increase dramatically.

Once you find it run with it.  Now you can set up a main pen name, author’s page, and mailing list if you wish. You can use your main pen name to publish stories in your niche and use your first pen name to test of stories until you find another profitable niche.

Be Original

Being original.  I can’t stress that enough.  Don’t be the hack that rewrites a popular story in your own words.  The story of the sadistic dominant millionaire who takes interest in the shy mousy girl has been done to death.  After E.L. James’ success with 50 Shades Of Gray, hundreds of erotic authors wrote the same story in their own words.  It may have worked for some, but eventually the market becomes saturated with millionaire stories.

Don’t jump on the bandwagon.  When you try to recreate the success of another author you will always be a few steps behind.  Not only will you be competing with original author for sales, but hundreds of other bandwagon authors.

Conclusion

When starting out in erotica don’t worry about sales.  Just write.  Write in as many different genres as possible.  Try new things.  Eventually you will find things that work.

The formula for success in erotica is:  right niche + original story = lots of sales.

P.S.  If you would like to learn more about writing erotica that sells I suggest grabbing a copy of Confessions Of An Erotic Author: How To Write Smut That Sells.

I wrote this guide a few months back under the pen name Adriana Dogood.

 

 

The Plantation Owner’s Wife (Interracial Historical Erotica)

She knew it was wrong.  She knew there would be dire consequences if they were caught.  But she couldn’t help herself.

Abigail is the wife of a wealthy plantation owner with a dark, irresistible past.

Excerpt from The Plantation Owner’s Wife:

The Kentucky bluegrass waves in the field behind my house, and I pause amidst the responsibilities of the day to admire the figure in the field beyond the blaze of sheer July green.

His name is David, and he’s new. My husband, William, bought him last week, leading him in like some prize stallion, but ruining the moment with his own impotence as a man. David towers over William, and his dark eyes ran over me quickly, intelligently, his mouth set in a firm tight line that betrayed nothing except the raw energy inside him. I remember I became very hot and uncomfortable in my corset, but strangely felt glad that I’d worn the white and blue gown with lace eyelet trim. My eyes, a blue as the pure Kentucky sky, met eyes as dark as the Kentucky earth. The sun was clear and hot and I made my excuses quickly, fumbling to remember my role as housekeeper and wife of the estate owner. William’s eyes were shrewd as always, and even if I didn’t know what I was feeling then, he did, and quickly directed David to his living space—far away from me.

At the time, I didn’t even know his name—I learned it accidentally, while one of the younger maids gossiped with her mother about how one of the new slaves, David, had already received a whipping from our foreman, Johnathon, less than one week into living here. Her mother, Constance, eyed her daughter’s rosy cheeks and bright eyes, then gave her a smart smack on the cheek.

“Dun’ go gettin’ yo’selfn’ trouble now. David’s a good man, but heesa man jus’ like any otha.”

The girl’s eyes dimmed and she nodded solemnly before going back to her dusting. I stepped away from the door to the dining room silently, unable to shake Constance’s firm tone from my mind. A man just like any other. I thought about the sharp, blundering pitches William made at me at night, in the dark beneath the covers of our bed. The uncomfortable heat, William’s determined, annoying grunts, the dryness between my legs, the inevitable soreness and strange weariness the next day. Somehow, I didn’t think that was what Constance was talking about. For the first time, I thought about Constance as a woman with another man, making the girl she was so matter-of-factly protecting. A man just like any other.

“Ma’am?”

I shake myself out of my reverie; David isn’t even in the distance anymore, and I’m just leaning on the verandah rail like a lovesick girl, thinking about my thoughts. Constance’s daughter, Minnie, drops a small curtsey before proceeding.

“Was jus’ wantin’ to see’f yous still wanted that chick’n made fo’ when Master William gets back.”

“Yes, please get started on that,” I glanced up at the sky. “He’ll be home in a couple hours.”

Minnie bobs another curtsey and goes back into the house. I watch the indistinguishable figures moving around in the far fields for a few moments more before I turn as well and follow Minnie, moving through the beautifully varnished wooden floors and carefully wallpapered walls until I’ve reached my husband’s study, off the side of the main entrance into the foyer.

It’s not really his study—I’m the one who keeps track of all the expenditures, incomes, and taxes, and balances and budgets each month accordingly. He only ever comes in here for meetings with local plantation owners, or to draw up an official contract that he secretly shows me for approval before signing. It’s the end of August now, and I sit heavily into the handsome wooden chair, my breasts straining uncomfortably against the tight lacing of the corset. I draw a breath slowly, and exhale through my nose. It’s still uncomfortable, but bearable. I smooth my skirts beneath me, reach up to pat my hair, split neatly into two loops and pinned to the sides of my head by Constance this morning.

“This,” she’d said, holding a lock of my hair up so I could see it in the mirror. “This is a good, strong, brown.” Then she let the soft, natural ringlets fall from her hand, the color of a brand-new leather riding saddle.

I work quietly, tucked away from the late afternoon heat. The numbers on the paper in front of me calm and distract me from the vast landscape of wandering thoughts I nearly lost myself in looking out at the fields. I don’t know what to think about the battering butterfly wings that make me forget everything that separates me from David, and I’m both grateful and resentful that our run-ins are infrequent enough as to merit my own renditions and imaginings of them before I can meet his frank, yet aloof, gaze in person. Darn it all.

For the fourth month in a row now, we’ve gone over budget. I’m not sure how, but it must be William’s spending. I check the numbers again, and again, but I can’t figure out why they’re not adding up. I just know they’re not. Disgruntled, I give a jump of surprise when there’s a sharp rap at the front door. Constance bustles into the front hall and I hear the door open, and her sharp intake of breath a second before she scolds whoever is on the front step. From the sound of it, it’s a field hand, probably newer and just tired or lost or thinking that coming into my home is in any way appropriate. I lean curiously toward the huge bay window, but the lovely plants that I supervised the planting of block my view. Frustrated, I rise and pace a lap around the study, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever is standing at the front door and giving poor Constance so much trouble.

It’s him.

I don’t know how or why, but it’s like he knows my husband is gone and that he won’t be back for some time still. Something rises inside me, and with a practiced authority I step out of my study.

“It’s okay, Constance, I sent for him.”

“You?” Her tone is utterly incredulous. “But, Ma’am, s’not right.”

I raise my eyebrows at her, and she withdraws, muttering to herself.

We look at each other, and our gazes are like new lovers tentatively examining one another’s bodies. There was another man, before William, though of course he doesn’t know that. He’ll never know the man, either. Daddy was the foreman and I was the prize hen, caught being mauled in the barn one evening by a cinnamon-colored slave named Abraham. Abraham is dead now, and I can feel the scars across my own back prickle at the thought of him. My father and mother, forced to suffer their shame in secrecy, nearly killed me as well.

It’s like David is reading the story in my eyes as he closes the distance between us in two strides, stopping just short of touching me and looking intently into my face. He lifts a hand and touches the tip of the scar that plays peek-a-boo with the collar of my dress every day.

Daddy, Daddy it was my fault! Daddy, please, no! No!

Shut your mouth, Abigail, you disgusting, loose girl.

I never wanted this life, but my parents ensured I had it. William was in debt, but the son of a local plantation owner. I paid for my disgrace with Abraham, and I paid for my refusal to marry William. Dearly. On our wedding night, when he discovered my scars, I tasted bile in my mouth as I recounted the story my mother had lashed into me.

There was a rebellion on the planation I grew up on, and some slaves used me to make a point when I strayed too far from the house.

That night, I suffered gladly.

I blink and David’s eyes are soft, though a curious expression curls his mouth into a faint grimace. His own story flashes across his eyes, briefly, much less detailed than mine, but infinitely more painful.

So much death, so many siblings and half siblings. His mother is—was—a prize hen, just like me. Unlike me though, she didn’t seek an escape, she sought the escape. The remains of David’s family are now scattered across the South, dead and alive. Foolish woman, running away with five grown children and two little ones. Pain stabs my rib like a punch as David’s eyes flash, and I feel his guilt for living now. I’m sorry.

I don’t know how long we’ve been standing in the foyer, but suddenly I feel the wrongness of this moment, the danger it poses to both of us, but especially him. I open my mouth to send him out, but he places a hand firmly over my mouth and shakes his head. Turning me, he pushes me towards the office, with the big windows blocked by plants. My mind flapping like bedsheets in the wind, I let myself be propelled forward, paralyzed with panic and desire for this man who I can never be with.

Want More?  Grab a Copy on Amazon

Full Body Search (Forced Lesbian Submission)

Ally has everything a girl could want: money, beauty and a fabulous modeling career. But something is missing.

Her life as a model leaves her unfulfilled and desperate until one day she makes a reckless, fateful decision that will threaten her freedom and put her at the mercy of a beautiful Greek customs official called Adriana.

Excerpt from Full Body Search:

My name is Ally, and I’m a model. It really isn’t as glamorous as you might think. Sure there are the ten to twelve foreign trips a year, the fabulous clothes, and the occasional thrill of seeing yourself on the front cover of a magazine or in a perfume advert or on a bill board posing in a pair of sunglasses. I mean, that can be fun, if you like that sort of thing.

But it has its downside. For a start, you have to meet some of the world’s most awful people. I mean, seriously unpleasant individuals, from the leering, groping photographer who always wants you to show more flesh, to the utterly amoral publicists, bookers and promoters who treat you like a princess one moment, and then trash you the next.

To be honest, very few people I’ve met in the modeling business are the sort of people you would want to introduce to your family.

Speaking of my family, they think I’m living the high life. They’re happy for me, of course, but they’re jealous too, particularly my sister-in-law, who is always making snarky remarks about my privileged life. Yes, sure, I’m always tanned, toned and immaculately dressed, but that’s my job. They don’t see the nights when I can’t sleep for hunger, the times I throw up from having done too many crunches, and they don’t understand the anxiety of constantly worrying about your appearance, knowing that any decline, any sign of aging or weakness could be the beginning of the end of your livelihood.   

My mother is thrilled that I’m a model. It’s the culmination of her life’s work. She always told me I was pretty, which was great for my self-esteem. In fact, all through school I suffered with what you could politely call an excess of self-esteem. I was a brat, if you will, or a bitch, if you like. The most beautiful girl in school? Maybe. The most hated girl in school? Definitely. My mother would tell me that the other kids were just jealous. Maybe they were, but that didn’t make me feel better, and it didn’t make up for not having real friends. I hung around with a lot of beautiful people, went to a lot of parties, but none of them were friends.

What I really wanted to do was paint. I loved painting. I loved the way the oil paint felt as I eased it onto the canvas. When I was painting, no matter what I was painting, I would feel truly free. Hours would go by with just me and my paints and a canvas. Nothing fulfilled me more than painting. I would spend my summers and all my holidays painting, that was at least when I wasn’t being packed off to pageant practice or cheerleader camp. My first holiday back after leaving home, I found that not only had my mother redecorated my room, she’d thrown out all of my paintings. She seemed genuinely puzzled when I complained.

“But sweetie, you’re a model now,” she said. Yes, I was a model. I was also miserable and lonely. I’d started smoking. I was rude to most people I met. And I was bored. Bored, bored, bored. Modeling is boring. It’s hard, repetitive and boring. That’s why I suppose I was open to suggestion, to distraction, to being tempted into doing something really, really stupid.

We’ve all done stupid things. Come on, I’m sure you have. My stupid thing, my really, really stupid thing, happened in Greece. I had flown out there for a modeling shoot, which was cancelled when the magazine that was paying for it went bust. So there I was, sitting in my hotel, working out whether I had enough money to get back home. My agent had made himself unavailable, as he always did when I needed real help. I was sitting in the hotel bar, planning on getting blind drunk as an alternative to coming up with a proper plan, when one of the staff at the hotel took the seat next to me.

I was pretty sure at the time that she was a lesbian. She was pretty, no doubt, with long dark straight air, a gorgeous complexion and a tight, slender, almost frail physique. She had been flirting with me a little, at breakfast, and whenever I went to the reception desk. She was wasting her time. I thought I had a very firm idea about that kind of thing. In fact, a girl once tried to kiss me at a party, and I spent the next week telling everyone in school that she was a lesbian. I was sure that lesbians were disgusting. I mean, who would want to be touched by another girl. Touched there. It was just, well, wrong.

But on this particular night, the girl in the hotel didn’t want to flirt with me. She had a proposition. She was willing to offer me ten thousand dollars to take a package through customs. Of course, that was never the sort of thing you should do. Obviously you say no, right? Sensible Ally, painter Ally would not have said yes. But bitchy, unhappy, lonely Ally, assisted by two and a half shots of vodka, said yes. That same night, the package, and half the money was waiting for me on my hotel bed when I crawled back to my room.

The next day, I couldn’t find the girl anywhere in the hotel. I thought about just leaving the package and the money there, but then I needed the money. I had to buy a ticket home. So, hungover, wilting in the heat, and just desperate to get back to New York, I put the package in my suitcase, stuffed the money into my purse and headed for the airport.

Soon I was standing in the long, winding queue for the check-in desk. I’d bought myself a new sun hat with some of the money and a lovely beaded bangle, but the thrill of shopping had quickly burnt away in the Greek sun and now I was tired, hot and having serious second thoughts about the decision I’d made.

The queue in front of me was moving slowly. There were bored looking couples lining up to return to normality, harassed single parents struggling to cope with their screaming children, and a smattering of locals and businessmen. It was warm, really warm, and the air conditioners were losing the battler to keep the hall temperature at a tolerable level.

I was grateful that I had decided not to wear the little jacket I’d bought at the boutique that morning. I wore a peach-toned crop top and a floral, wrap-around skirt in a cool, light material, and my decision not to wear a bra was also a good one. I was slightly concerned that the outline of my nipples was visible through the thin material of the top, but I had bigger things to worry about: specifically, the package in my suitcase. Several times I had considered ducking out of the line, going back to the hotel or outside and throwing it into the nearest bin. But there were several things wrong with this plan. The people who gave me the package would presumably not be happy if I ditched it. I’d also spent some of their money and wouldn’t immediately be able to pay it back, which I assumed would also not go down well.

The line inched forward and I was torn between impatience to get onto the flight and away, and a desire for the line never to reach the check-in desk. That moment came, soon enough, by which point my panic was clearly visible in my face and my wavering voice.

The man at the check-in looked me over slowly. I was used to that. Men had been doing that to me for as long as I could remember. Usually I would scowl or make a sharp remark. This time I tried to assemble my face into a smile. He took my passport, studied it, showed it to his co-worker, shrugged and then handed it back to me, indicating with a nod of his head and a kind of grunt, that I should put my luggage on the check-in ramp. My hand shaking, I lifted up the designer handbag with the regal pattern and the polished handles. The conveyor belt began to trundle and the bag slid into the dark interior.

Well, it was too late now. I wandered away from the check-in, clutching my boarding pass and passport, feeling sick. I sat a little way off, looking at the flight arrivals and departures board, wondering if it was too late to make a run for it. But where would I run to? What would I do next? I ran through several increasingly elaborate scenarios in which I could get rid of the package, give back the money and safely return to New York, and was in the middle of one involving the American embassy and the United Nations when I was interrupted.

“Excuse me, Miss Johnson?”

I looked up. A customs officer in a crisp white uniform was standing over me.

“Yes?”

“There has been a problem. Come with me, please.”

Panic struck me. I looked wildly around. There were the exits. Maybe I could run for it. Then I remembered the four inch designer sandals I was wearing. Neither I nor the sandals were built for running. I could sashay to the exits, I could walk elegantly to the exits, but run to the exits? I would probably fall flat on my face, like I did that one time on the catwalk in Budapest.

So I followed him meekly, through the departure lounge, through a cordoned off area, through a white door and along a white corridor. He stopped to knock on a door, and hearing a muffled reply, opened it, and beckoned me to enter.

Inside the room was a table, at which sat a man and a woman, both in the white uniform of the airport. Off to one side, I noticed my suitcase. I could feel my heart racing. How could I have been so stupid? Just one moment’s drunken weakness, a stupid decision, and now I was about to be arrested in Greece. What would happen to me? What would my agent say? What would my mother say?

The woman officer beckoned to the man beside her to leave the room, which he did. She beckoned me forwards and then spoke in perfect English, but with a strong accent:

“I need to inspect your hand luggage.”

With shaking hands I placed my Christian Dior travel bag onto the table. I watched as she unzipped it and began to search. Her name, according to her airport badge, was Adriana. Despite my rising terror, I couldn’t help noticing that she was extremely attractive. It was instinctive. Most of my life I’d been comparing myself to other girls, other women, scrutinizing the opposition. I couldn’t help it. Adriana was stunning. She had a sporty physique, and her deep blue eyes were framed by high cheek bones and shoulder-length cascades of dark, wavy hair. Her lips were impossibly full, but entirely natural, as was her deep, rich tan.

My bag was pulled wide open. I watched her search through my things, examining them. She fingered my purse, checked my driver’s ID, counted the notes and change. She lingered on the perfume, the deodorant and the compact. I started to blush as I remembered what else was in there. She lifted up a delicate, lacy black thong, twirling it a little on her gloved finger before replacing it. Then she smiled a little as she slid a slim, purple vibrator from the bag. I flushed. I had packed in a hurry, and had only found that when I had already zipped up the suitcase, so had stuffed it into my travel bag along with the…I flushed again as I remembered what else I’d stuffed in there. The anal beads I’d ordered online! She held them up and smiled at me again. I felt a little anger rising in me. What was this? So I wanted to experiment a little? It’s not a crime! But I didn’t say anything, and soon she had finished with the bag search.

“Now, Miss Johnson, I am afraid that this is really boring, but we need to do a full body search. It is necessary, and won’t take long.”

“A body search?” The idea terrified me.

“Yes, it is routine.”

Routine? Could it be that this was just a routine inspection? A practice? I glanced over at my suitcase. Surely they would have found the package? Maybe not though. I thought I’d chance my luck and try to bluff my way out of it.

“I really don’t see why I should have to submit to a body search. I haven’t done anything wrong.” This didn’t seem to have any effect on Adriana. “I’m an American citizen,” I said, as though that was important.

“It really will not take long,” she assured me. I sighed. Perhaps I would get some credit for co-operating.

”Fine,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Let’s get it over with.”

She twisted her lips into what seemed to me to be more of a smirk than a smile.

“Can you please just step into that room?”

She indicated a door at the back of the room. I click-clacked across the polished floor to the door and opened it. Inside was a high, padded leather bench. There were various notices and signs in Greek on the wall and a desk to the right. To the left there was what appeared to be a toilet cubicle and a shower. It looked like a cross between a doctor’s consulting room and a prison cell.

“Please wait here,” said Adriana, closing the door behind her. I sat on the bench, looking around me glumly. I could hear voices outside, then the voices stopped, a door closed and I could hear what sounded like a key turning in a lock.

Adriana came back into the room. She walked over to one side, unfastened her jacket and hung it on a peg on the wall. She turned to me and smiled and I couldn’t help noticing how the round of her breasts bulged against the turquoise material of her shirt. They must have been 38D at least. If they were her own, they were mightily impressive.

“Stand up please,” she said, coming close to me.

I slipped off the bench and stood there. In that instant, it reminded me of being in the nurse’s office at school, preparing for yet another examination.

She stood so close that I could smell her perfume, a fusion of lilac and lilies and something more exotic, something that was redolent of citrus fruits and berries. I closed my eyes as she patted me down. She was a lot gentler than I expected, certainly a lot gentler than that TSA guard who did the same thing at JFK six months earlier. In fact, as she bent down to pat my legs, it seemed to me that Adriana was almost lingering on my thighs.

“Turn around,” she said, and I did. I felt her feeling my calves, my knees, my thighs, and the round of my butt. I felt her hands on my back, and then, around my stomach and up, over my breasts. I closed my eyes as I realized she would find I was bra-less. Her latex-covered palm brushed lightly over my right nipple and I shivered a little, involuntarily.

“Thank you, Miss Johnson, you may turn around now.”

“Is that it?”

“Not quite. You will now please take off your clothes.” Her voice had a hard edge to it this time, and her smile had gone.

“No way,” I said, raising my voice instinctively. “No freaking way am I getting naked for you. What do you think this is? I want to speak to an attorney. I want to speak to the Embassy. You have no right to do this. I am an American.”

Yes, one thing that I was good at, aside from looking nonchalant in lingerie, was throwing a tantrum. I had been doing it since I was a toddler, and twenty years of practice meant I had gotten really good at it. My tantrums almost always led to me getting my way.

Unfortunately, it did not seem to have that effect on Adriana. She stepped forward, close to me and grabbed my face with her gloved hand, squeezing my cheeks. I was so shocked I couldn’t breath. Her face was close to mine and I could feel the warmth of her breath.

“Listen, American whore, there is no attorney for you. Do as you are told.”

“You can’t tell me what to do” I said, my voice all wavery and weak.

“Oh no? Really? And what about the kilo of cocaine we found in your luggage. Do you think that gives me the right to tell you what to do?”

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Ethereal Emma: Blackmailed By My Husband’s Brother

I just released new story about a high powered lawyer name Emma who is blackmailed by her husband’s brother when he finds out about her colorful past.  This story contains dubious consent and forced sex.  Unfortunately, Amazon has deemed this story too risque and have ADULT LISTED it.  You will only be able to find this book through my Author’s Page or any links I provide.

Here’s an excerpt from Ethereal Emma: Blackmailed By Husband’s Brother:

In the soft, early morning haze of the sunlight streaming through our window, my husband’s breathing is harsh in my ear, his dick rock hard against me as we kiss. He holds my face tenderly and I feel the disconnect between his body and his actions, that he wants to take me and do dirty, dirty things to me, but somehow can never bring himself to do it. As we kiss, I find my mind drifting, not for the first time, to thoughts of what I would do to myself in his place. Sometimes I think about what I’d want another man to do to me, but I’ve never been able to envision an exact face, besides movie stars, and even so, they make me feel guilty and then I have to make up a story for why I’m not that into it. As his hand slides tentatively downward, I let out the obligatory sigh to encourage him, imagining that someone has just climbed on top of me and pushed me back roughly, making me watch him trail fingers down my belly and tease around where I want him most. Alas, no, my husband’s fingers are cautious and insecure and I fake an orgasm quickly, even though he’s about as close to my clit as California is to South Carolina.

He climbs on top of me now, and rides me into missionary boredom for a few minutes before coming in his understated way, an odd expression flickering across his face and a soft gasp.

We’ve been snuggling for twenty minutes now and I’m so bored.

Gently, I disengage and give him a quick kiss as I get out of bed. I imagine he grabs my ass with one hand as I try to leave, and uses the other hand to wrap possessively around my waist and pull me back for one last, good, morning fuck.

Alas. I get ready for work quickly, pulling on a lacy black thong and shimmying into my pantyhose. A black skirt that hugs my firm, round ass is next, but I leave it open at the back while I’m selecting a blouse. I opt for the pale-pink one and tuck it carefully into my skirt, making sure the edges are smooth and there are no weird limps or creases of fabric. Then, I pull on my black jacket over it, swipe on a little mascara and lipstick, brush my only-slightly mussed wheat-in-the-sun-blonde hair so that it hangs in a straight, glossy waterfall, and step into the black pumps that make me just taller than my husband.

My husband, who is lying on the bed watching me get ready like he can’t believe how lucky he is. To be honest, this is the best part of sex with him. The glowing admiration for me and my body, which I feel like a burst of sunshine on my otherwise cloudy, unsatisfied mood.

“Don’t forget, Dev is coming over for dinner later,” he calls contentedly as I’m leaving.

“Thanks babe, see you later.”

Outside, our sleepy suburban neighborhood is slowly blinking awake. After doing my undergrad and master’s in Chicago, this tired little town that’s so close to the Wisconsin border you can practically smell the cheese is irritatingly calm. I wave robotically to Neighbor with Annoying Yappy Dog and open the door to my black Mercedes Benz, which is utterly out of place here amidst the sensible, family-friendly Toyotas and Subarus. But part of the allure of law school was the paycheck, and part of the allure of Ben was his ability to give killer neck-massages, so there isn’t really anyone to blame for Neighbor with Annoying Yappy Dog except myself.

Still, I purse my moist, deep-red lips at myself in disdain looking at the rearview mirror, and then back slowly out of the driveway before zooming out of the subdivision and into the city as quickly as I can.

Work is uneventful. There are a couple new boys, fresh off the boat Ivy League. We have some fun, them hitting on me like I’m the coffee girl, and me giggling and widening my dark-roast eyes at them for a few minutes until I get bored and hurry them along to their first meeting with their new boss.

The looks on their faces when I walk into my beautiful, wall-to-wall paneled glass-window corner office is more gratifying than most of the sex I’ve had since I got my degree and got married. The cherry on top is always watching them fumble and shuffle their language into some semblance of professionalism, but this isn’t a skill set I’ve ever struggled with. I’ve been fluent in law jargon and aware of the line between sex and law since I started filming high-end movies for clients who largely occupy the same financial sphere that I now do.

My name was Ethereal Emma, and back then I had Irish-lass red-hair, permed into an ultimate hidden-in-plain-sight disguise. Lots of my projects are still being adapted into shittier Pornhub versions, even today, some four years later, but the quality stuff, my stuff, is only available to those who subscribe to a closed website with access restricted to those who can pay the staggering fee to see my fantastic tits and ass in action. I politely glaze over as the boys tell me about their path to practicing law, thinking instead about the first time the two worlds merged for me and I played a paralegal who let herself get taken by a person-of-interest on the floor in front of the witness stand. At the end, she wins the case, and the final shot is of her, me, subtly untwisting my lacy black bra-strap so that it lies smooth and flat against my slightly sweaty skin.

Memories like these get me through my day, and sort of my life.

After a long day, I relax in the usual crush of cars on the highway and play with a small hole that I’ve found in my pantyhose. It’s on my inner thigh. I wiggle my pointer finger around and feel the pulses of excited nerve receptors on my leg. Are we getting laid soon?

I wish.

When I finally get home, Ben’s brother’s car is already there and I allow myself a small sigh of impatience. This evening is almost sure to be trying; both Dev and I know that I settled with Ben, but Ben is as blissfully unaware of that as he is that Dev and I had sex on New Year’s last year, two weeks before The Wedding.

“Never again,” I’d told him, after letting him eat me out while I sat on the drying machine in the laundry closet of some mutual friend’s home. Even so, my legs almost gave out on landing when I tried to hop down from the drier.

I enter my home, and both men turn to greet me, one with a soft, sappy look, and the other with calculating dark eyes and a lazy smile that still drives me wild. Even their embraces couldn’t be more different; Ben pulls me against him while Dev places a hand possessively on my neck in a brief embrace that still tell me he wants me.

“I’ll just go change,” I mutter. I feel Dev’s eyes on my ass as I walk up the stairs, and, I can’t help it, my cheeks flame.

“Do you need any help with dinner, or can I run away for minute too? I gotta take a dump.” Dev’s voice floats up after me in that drawling financial investor’s voice of his.

“Sure,” Ben says, unconcerned. “I’ll just be in the kitchen.”

I hear footsteps on the stairs as I’m in my room, but utterly taken aback as Dev barges in. “What the fuck,” I hiss, trying to hug my bra to my tits. It’s difficult to rein in 34Es.

Dev’s eyes slide over me, and he takes his time answering before reaching behind him, untucking his shirt, and producing a DVD.

My eyes narrow. “Again, what the fuck?”

“The funny thing about porn, my beautiful Emma, is that it’s amazing the type of quality you can get if you’re willing to pay.”

His sentence hangs in the air as I realize what he’s saying, and without thinking I gasp and snatch at the DVD, but he quickly jerks it out of reach.

“Dev, I’m not joking, give that to me.”

“I’m not joking, and I’m not going to give it to you.” His voice is soft now, low and dangerous.

“You’re going to turn around and do exactly as I say while my sweet brother works on his latest hippie-dippie vegan sauce with six thousand ingredients to measure out.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond, tossing the DVD on the floor where I can see it, but as I instinctively twitch toward it he grabs me roughly and twists me around, almost like I’m under arrest. He marches me to the bed and shoves my head down onto the downy comforter. No foreplay, he’s not touching me, but suddenly I hear his belt buckle clink and the zipper fwhiip down. His cock is at least seven inches and nosing up under my skirt, between my ass cheeks, exploring. I hear him like a finger and trail it up the inside of my inner thigh. I’m still wearing my pantyhose, still trying to hold my bra to my chest with one hand, and still in my skirt and heels. He jerks my arms down and rips the bra from me and my enormous, round tits bounce free, with one hand he caresses them, the other working my skirt up around my middle and reminding me so much of being in one of my movies that for a moment I truly am caught between two worlds. But then I remember who I’m with and where I am and my body gives a jerk of protest even as my mouth opens. He claps a hand over it, none too gently, and hisses.

“Don’t even try to speak.”

Bored with the hole, he simply tears the panty hose off me, and I hear his breathing grow more excited as he feels the silky skin of my inner thighs, the wetness I can’t control up between my legs, soaking through my black lace thong that matches the bra strewn on the floor with the DVD.

“You haven’t returned my phone calls or my texts.”

“No,” I mumbled through his hand, still defiant. His hand slides around my throat and squeezes, hard. I let out a strangled gasp and squirm against him; I genuinely can’t breathe. He presses harder for one moment longer and then releases me, but only to push me down and spread my legs, taking one, two fingers and slowly inserting them inside me, stroking and playing and only pretending to sometimes notice my clit. I’m slick with heat and my juices and shaking now, so turned on but so horrified at what is happening to me that I’m paralyzed. My hair is all around me as he grabs most of it in his fist and draws me up against him, both hands still working my body into a fever as he snarls into my ear.

“You are mine. You will do what I say, or I will ruin you. I wonder how the little boys at the office would respond to having a boss who starred in some of their favorite movies?”

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