Month: July 2017

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?”

Want More?  Grab a Copy on Amazon

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?”

Want More?  Grab a Copy on Amazon

The Only Marketing Erotic Authors Need

Erotica is like a drug.  And like all drugs it sells itself.  As long as you hit the right niche, have a sexy cover, and can write half way decent you’re going to do well.

Is marketing completely necessary if you’re an erotica writer?  Not really.  You should be spending most of you’re time focused on writing.

When I first started writing erotica I spent a lot of time marketing.  I  joined hundreds of book promotion pages and tried to build a presence on social media.  These all seemed to do very little for me, and I ended spending so much time marketing that I was getting away from what truly mattered – writing.

There is however, one marketing tactic that all erotica authors, authors in general, should use, and it’s a MAILING LIST.

You’re looking for true fans.  If someone takes time to sign up for you’re mailing list that means their a true fan.

Just think about,  how many mailing lists do you sign up for?  If you’re like me, it’s not many.  I don’t need the spam mail.  If I sign up for mailing list it means I really, really like the author, product, company etc.  If they have something new out I want to know about it.  That’s a true fan.

True fans will pay your bills.  A mailing list is way of marketing where you focus on the true fans (80/20 principle), instead of wasting time marketing to people who aren’t interested in your writing.

How Do I Start A Mailing List? 

Starting a mailing list is easy.  I’m not going to walk you through it step by step.  It’s 2017.  There are hundreds of videos out there that will so how to set up a mailing list.

The main players when it comes to mailing lists are: mailchimp.com or aweber.com.  I use mailchimp.  It’s clean, free, and easy to use.

Once you have an account set up you can create a sign up form.  Copy the url from the sign up form and start placing it in the front and back matter of all your books.  You can also place  it into your author’s page or other social media platforms if you have them.

Every time you release new books you can send out a simple newsletter to inform your fans.  I usually publish my books Friday morning.  They go live in the evening, and then I send out newsletter midday Saturday.

Conclusion

I saw a significant boost in sales once I started a mailing list.  It’s so simple that I was kicking myself for not starting it sooner.  If you’re erotica author, author in general, and don’t have a mailing list I highly suggest looking into it.

How To Give Up Short Term Sales To Get Long Term Sales (Self Publishing Authors)

Everyone loves free stuff.  An Amazon customer may not be willing to buy work from author they don’t know, but they will take a chance on an author if their work is free.   That’s why it’s important to give freebies away every now and then.

This may sound counterintuitive, but hear me out.

Giving freebies can increase sales because it hooks in new readers.  Even if you give away 100 books in one day and you gain one true fan it’s a success.  Now you have a fan who will not only buy your older titles but buy anything you produce in the future.

Amazon let’s you  promote your book for FREE for up to 5 days during the 90 day cycle it’s in KDP.  You can promote it for free 5 days in a row, or you can set it up for a couple days one month, and a couple days the next month.  Maybe you only promote it for the weekend.

When you give away something for free do it strategically.  Never give new releases out for free.  I usually give away older titles that have slid down the sales ranking.  I always notice that the sales ranking spikes up significantly after giving the book away for free, which means more eyeballs on your book thus more sales & borrows.

If you have an older series I recommend giving away the first book of the series.  If the customer loved the first book their sure to buy the rest of the series.

You should also make sure to update the front & back matter of your book before you make it free, especially if it’s an older title.  This will help direct potential fans to your most recent work.

My summer sales have been pretty slow.  Two weekends ago I decided to give away one of my older titles for free.  I promoted it for 5 days.  During those 5 days I gave away over 300 free units.  The following week my sales & borrows increased significantly.  In fact, I’ve been having my best stretch of sales all summer.

Not only have I increased sales, but the book I gave away for free has increased it sales ranking. An otherwise dead book is now revived.

If you have a big catalog in Amazon consider giving away an older title for free.  Try promoting over the weekend.  Update the front & back matter to your most recent work.  You may be surprised to see an uptick in sales.

Daddy Deflowered Me (complete FREE story)

In my last post I talked about Amazon and other book retailers cracking down on pseudo incest stories.  It was inspired from one of my latest stories being blocked by both Amazon and Pronoun.  The story revolves around a young girl (18 years of age, of course) who loses her virginity to her stepfather.

Since I won’t be able to sell the story through any retailers I’ve decided to give the book away for free.  Here it is:

I love being in the car with Cam. He rests one hand on my knee, the other firmly on the steering wheel, winding his dark blue truck through the neighborhood we’ve grown up in. It always takes me back, seeing how big his hands are splayed across my leg. He’s the starting wide receiver for the football team so I guess it makes sense, but still.

I bounce my leg absentmindedly to the music blaring from his stereo, and his hand tightens around my leg. I feel a little jolt as he does, even though I’m wearing jeans. My body is always hyper-sensitive whenever he’s around me, even after six weeks. Of course, it’s even more so right now because of what we talked about last night…

Jules, Cam had whispered, pulling back from me and holding my face gently in his hands. “Jules, I love you.”

It felt exactly how I’d heard it would feel—the swooping in my stomach, the softening of the glow of lamplight streaming into the car from the empty parking lot we’d stopped to make out in. Goosebumps erupted on my arms and I felt his eyes blaze with honesty and a little fear.

“I…love you too,” I whispered, never taking my hazel eyes from his big brown ones.

He pulled me closer to him, his mouth moving urgently against mine. One hand slipped down my loose blouse and I felt my breath catch as he worked the clasp of my bra off with one hand before moving to cup my full B cup, caressing it softly. I closed my eyes in bliss and I felt the blouse being slipped over my head, my bra straps falling away from my shoulders in a whisper of Victoria’s Secret lace. He kissed me with an intensity that was almost painful, his mouth hard on mine and his arms wrapped around me across the car’s console. The gear stick dug uncomfortably into my stomach as he pulled me towards him, and suddenly I felt his hand ghost downward, slowly, but not hesitantly, and slip inside the waistband of my jeans. I sucked in a breath and he paused, looking intently into my face. I knew what he wanted and he knew I knew, but nevertheless I froze with indecision. Reluctantly, he pulled back from me, and in the cooling air I felt my firm, round, tits tighten.

“It’s just…it would be my first time,” I said, my voice low. My voice came out a little husky; we’d been kissing for a long time and I could feel the words struggling past my lips, slightly swollen in a post-make out pout. Cam smiled kindly; I could see the wheels in his non-virgin head turning. I remember I held my breath—I knew what he was supposed to say, but did he?

“We can wait as long as you need,” he said, leaning towards me and giving me a soft, sweet kiss. He reached down and picked up my bra, my inside-out blouse. “We can also do it somewhere more special if you’d like.”

My face split into the biggest, most ridiculous grin. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so relieved. “Special would be nice.” He pushed my long, thick caramel-brown hair out of my face and kissed me again.

“A special night for a special girl, then.”

Cam pulled into my driveway, the friendly little ranch house I grew up in twinkly with lights from the family room and front porch. He put the car in park and leaned over.

“So…my parents are going to be at a friend’s house tomorrow night. Do you want to come over then?” His eyes sparked like a fresh-lit piece of firewood, and I knew he didn’t just mean for a movie and cuddles. I felt my eyes slide away, but took a deep breath.

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” my voice came out even, if a little high-pitched. He smiled a slow, lazy smile, that didn’t really conceal the excitement in his voice.

“Awesome,” he leaned over and gave me a big kiss, with tongue. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

I got out of the car and waved as he backed out and pulled away, then turned and walked slowly into the house.

Tomorrow.

“Hello, Jenny,” Christian, my stepdad, called out as I came in.

“Hey,” I said absently, heading for the stairs.

“How was your day?” Christian isn’t really good at taking  hints. I stopped, taking the second from when Christian looked over from the couch to quickly adjust my blouse. I could only hope my bra straps were in their proper place.

“Fine. We learned about Cleopatra in history.” I’ve learned that if you give adults a specific about your day when they launch the “how was your day” question, they’re more likely to let you slink out of the conversation. It’s not that I don’t like Christian or enjoy talking to him, but he’s disconcertingly handsome and not someone I want to be talking to while thinking about Cam. They both have these intense brown eyes that linger uncomfortably on yours while you’re talking, which is great when you want to feel like everything you’re saying is important but not so much when you’re seeing your boyfriend in the face of your mom’s second husband. Speaking of.

“Where’s Mom?”

“Working late tonight at the hairdresser. Someone came in with a DIY ohmbray fail or something.”

“You mean Ombre?”

“Is that where you make your head look like there’s two different colors for no reason?”

“I guess, yeah.”

“Then yeah, that.”

“Uh huh,” I eye the staircase, and Christian gives an exaggerated, but good-natured sigh. “Go on, interrogation over.” I feel my dimples flash even as I turn away, and there’s a weird ripple in the room as Christian pretends not to watch me leave the room.

I’m passing by the office on my way to my room when I pause, struck by a thought. Of course. This whole thing at Cam’s house tomorrow night doesn’t have to be nearly as scary as it seems right now. I can hear the T.V. show going downstairs and know it’s safe for now, so I go into the office and close the door quietly behind me before going to the computer on the desk. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know enough to open an “incognito” window and make sure Adblock is working before I proceed. But then, how to proceed? The Google box sits in front of me, expectant. Shyly, I push the buttons. P-O-R-N. Pause. Add a word at the beginning. G-O-O-D. ENTER.

Instantly, the screen is awash in “good porn.” The number of sites is nearly as overwhelming as the absurdity of the titles. “Threesome does 69 minutes of 69”—what?? I scroll slowly, feeling weirdly dirty, but in the way a naughty child who’s been playing outside and ignoring his mother’s calls to come in more so than a child who’s lost control and fallen into the dirt. I click a safer-looking video, if that makes any sense, and immediately a blaring moan fills the room. Shit. I scramble for the volume, wrench the dial sideways. The noise only lasted a second but even so I’m spooked, moving quickly to the door and easing it open to make sure Christian hasn’t heard anything. No noise from downstairs, and the T.V. is still on. All good signs. I close the door again and go back to the computer, fascinated. Slowly, I ease the volume up until it’s just barely audible. There’s not much in the way of a script. A totally average-looking guy dressed up like a mailman rings a doorbell, and a totally overdressed woman who I’m assuming is the “Mom” in “Mom gets railed by the postmaster” answers the door in a sheer, black lace dress that she’s literally bursting out of. I’m pretty sure it was an accident when her one breast pops out less than two seconds into her “conversation” with the mail guy about what she could possibly spend her whole day doing (ha-ha).

Once I get over the fakeness of it all, I start to pay attention. The noises, his hand, her bodies curves and arches. It all seems like a grand masquerade, with the woman in the center of it all. I start to feel a weird pit forming in my stomach and instinctively clench my abs against it. Guilt, maybe? But then I start to feel warm down between my legs, and suddenly, even though everything in my school’s sex-ed class has tried to tell me sex isn’t fun and there’s nothing appealing about it, I feel myself getting wet. I think it was when the young girl showed up and pushed the older woman away from her man. “Shelly Takes Control” or something. Whoever Shelly was, she was awesome. Almost unconsciously, my hand drifted to my own waistband. I unzipped myself and nervously poked a finger into the soft down that I kept neatly trimmed. I kind of wiggled it around a little, feeling it getting wet from myself, but then the buzz started to fade and I stopped, confused. Whenever the girls in the clips touched themselves, or when their partner was touching them, they went crazy, moaning and breathing heavy and even screaming a little. Maybe…I shimmied my jeans down a little to give myself better access, and gave myself an experimental stroke a little further down. Then a couple more. Nothing, nothing, maybe a little—suddenly, it was like a bolt a fire seared across my belly, making my abs clench and my breath catch in a whoosh. OH. The feeling was addictive, my finger explored again, earnestly, and it was a few moments but then once again, that fiery whoosh swept through me. My finger was soaked, and for the first time I understood what Cam’s nasty teammates said when they leered at the easy girls in school and said they thought they smelled them coming.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps on the stairs. Shit shit shit. I froze, my brain launching into overdrive at all the things I needed to do, that were impossible to do, in the next five seconds. Closetheinternetwindowpullupyourpantswipeyourfingerdon’tlooklikeyouwerejustwatchingpornforfortyfiveminutes.

I’m utterly paralyzed as Christian opens the door, frozen with my hand still between my legs, my silky blue panties pushed aside by my own impatient hand, jeans caught partway down my legs, one hand crept up to my breast at some point, and I know my hair is a mess from rocking against myself for so long. He, too, freezes, and for a moment we just look at one another.

“Jenny,” his voice is harsh and odd-sounding in the silence. “Jenny what the hell—” he breaks off, looking away from me, looking back, away, back. He can’t look away. Everything about this is new to me. I’ve heard jokes about the guys who’ve gotten caught by their moms, handed better stuff by their dads, but I’ve never heard of a girl doing what I’ve been doing, let alone getting caught, let ALONE getting caught by her stepdad-who-reminds-her-of-her-boyfriend. Cam. I don’t know what Christian is thinking as he closes the door behind him, but I feel my eyes widen. A little bit afraid but actually not much. I feel alive and buzzing with an electric energy that I’ve never felt. Maybe a little at the end of one of my track races, but that’s the closest thing. This is next level.

“Jenny.” Christian’s voice is a little more normal-sounding now. “Jenny, let’s just forget this, ok?” But suddenly he’s in front of me, looking a little confused as to how he got there, and I’m turning in the swivel chair to look up at him, unconsciously employing everything I just learned from Porn 101.

I am an invitation.

His mouth opens a little, but no noise comes out. He tries again.

“Jenny, you’re beautiful, but I can’t.”

“I know.” They’re the first words I’ve spoken, and they somehow encapsulate everything. I know what I’m in for tomorrow, I know that Cam said what he had to say to get me to agree to come, and, even though I should technically have no standards because I am a “virgin,” I somehow know that it will not be very good. I feel alive in a new way, like I’ve invited a new person inside of me and we’re now jointly sharing my body, this Jenny Who Watches Porn and Old Jenny, the one who made her boyfriend wait four weeks before putting a hand up her shirt.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Jenny….”

“What?”

We look at each other, and in the stillness, I see movement.

“I think you can.” I have no idea where these words, this confidence, is coming from. Christian looks vaguely irritated, but also slightly dazed.

“How long have you been watching videos?”

“Just tonight. Cam wants to have sex tomorrow night.”

Christian’s eyes flash and I know immediately I said what I needed to say. I stand and step out of my jeans, looking up at Christian, who is standing so still, so stiff, that I wonder if maybe he will run out of the room after all. Pretend this never happened.

What never happened?

His resolve breaks when I cock my head to the side, eyebrows raised. He crushes me to him in a bone-crushing embrace, and his thick stubble scratches my face as his mouth comes down on mine, hard. His arms lift me and then he’s holding me, whispering roughly, “So, let’s see if you learned anything, then.” He’s carrying me out of the room, past my bedroom, and turning into the guest room, where he stayed when he was new around here and Mom wanted to pretend they weren’t having sex all the time. Now I get it. It was part of the game between them, and I was just a pawn. The thought brings another energy to me and I spontaneously catch Christian’s lip as we kiss, and he rears back in surprise, eyes flashing. He drops me on the bed and strips out of his shirt, tossing it to the floor before crawling onto the bed and dropping his full weight on me. Fear and energy are swirling in my stomach, but soon I forget to think anything at all—Christian is everywhere and my tits are sharp and pointy with my own insolence as he sucks and nibbles and pinches them into submission. The cries come much more naturally to me than the women in the videos, and it only just occurs to me as I feel Christian tugging my soaking wet panties off that maybe they were exaggerating. Maybe their sex wasn’t that great. But someone had to have great sex for them to try to imitate, right? I let out a reflexive shriek as Christian bends his head and flick his tongue experimentally between my legs. The sensation is utterly new and I feel my body release in a buck that puts my wholly in his face. Instead of rearing back at “the smell” though, he lets out an almost animal growl and pins me to the bed by grasping my hips firmly and pressing them into the small twin bed.

“Stay still, little girl,” he whispers throatily, kissing along the insides of my thighs. “You don’t know anything yet.”

Lights burst behind my eyes and I let out a full-on scream as he buried his face between my legs, one hand, one finger, stroking slowly, insistently, torturously, around that most secret of places that I’d only just accidentally discovered. He swirls his finger around it, lazily, like he doesn’t hear me panting and gasping, like he doesn’t feel my back arching and body writhing against his grip, his incredibly strong grip, which has me pinned to the bed and unable to escape him…

The wave has crashed, and he’s letting it ebb. Stroking me slowly, more gently, then finally, stopping. I push myself up on my elbows, looking at him in a daze. He doesn’t break eye contact as he removes his own jeans, his own briefs. He is the first naked man I’ve ever seen, and he is terrifyingly, hugely magnificent. His enormous cock is rigid and standing straight up, expectantly. He scoots to the edge of the bed, pulling me up beside him, and gestures to the floor.

“Get on your knees.” The command is simple; I can do that. Weak-kneed, I lower myself to the floor. “Show me what you learned just now.”

Cautiously, I lean forward, and flick the tip of his cock with my tongue, the way he began with me. A shudder ripples through his body. “Again,” he commands. I comply, and as his cock twitches under my tongue, the “lesson” becomes clear even as I remember the women in the videos.

“Like this?” I try to mimic his own lazy voice, and drag my tongue up along his shaft, cupping his balls in my hand instinctively, and swirling my tongue around his head in a flourish, like I’m being overdramatic with a lollipop. Another spasm ripples through him.

“Oh, Jenny…” The soft sigh is more than enough for me. I eagerly take him in my mouth, and the thought occurs to me that I might choke as he tangles his hands in my hair, pushing it out of my face so I can see what my hands are doing. They pump experimentally up and down his shaft, stacked easily one atop the other. I lick and suck on the head and he lets out a distinct moan, like a trapped animal.

“Twist, baby, twist.”

I take my hands and twist in opposite directions—again, this movement comes naturally to me. He moans again and his grip on my hair tightens. I deep-throat him, as far down as I can go, and he’s so hard that I wonder if it’s possible for him to bruise me. I play with his head, stroking the shaft and twisting experimentally, guided by his moans and ragged breathing, which is rapidly become shallower. Suddenly, he lets out a gasp and pushing me backward, onto the floor. He’s inside me before I know what’s happening, and he only pounds into me harder as my shriek of surprise turns into a scream of drawn-out ecstasy as his huge cock hits the deepest depths of me. I feel him tighten inside me, a rush of heat, and then it’s just us, tangled in one another’s fantasies that we didn’t even know about until tonight.

His mouth is at my neck, biting, and without thinking I twist up and give him a sharp nip on the soft skin just below the ear. He draws back in surprise, eyes gleaming with a fever.

“Turn around,” he growls. All at once I remember who and where I am, and who I’m doing, and that same unnamed feeling zaps my stomach. I know my eyes look wide and scared and my chest is heaving beneath him as he looks down at me.

“Don’t make me punish you,” he whispers softly. I comply quickly, rolling onto my stomach, quivering with uncertainty. I feel him between my ass cheeks, which are round and tight from four years on the volleyball team. I have an odd moment of remembering seeing Christian in the stands for the first time at one of my games last year, and distinctly remember pointedly ignoring him. I’d liked Mom’s last guy better.

He pushes between me and raises my hips up, and now I’m bent over on the ground in front of him, entirely at his mercy, when his hands begin to play with my tits again and I feel another rush of heat between my legs.

“Good girl.” He plays with me, rocking back and forth and I moan feeling him inside me. Abruptly, he releases my tits and forces my head to the ground, pumping harder and faster, holding only my hips for leverage and leaving me to scrabble against the ground against the force of his thrusting.

“Oh!” I lose traction and sprawl onto the ground belly-first, but there’s no escaping the giant inside me, greedily taking me for himself and growing tighter and harder than I’d have thought possible. My back arches with one last orgasm a moment before he comes too, in a burst that leaves both of us shaking and panting for breath.

For a few minutes, we just lie there, him splayed over me, almost protectively. Then, he helps me up, kisses me once, on the head. We dress silently and close the door behind us on the way out.

I’m not sure if Cam knows what’s coming for him tomorrow.

Want more stories?  Go to my Author’s Page 

A Warning To Erotic Authors

Beware about publishing in the pseudo incest genre (stepfather – stepdaughter; stepbrother – stepsister etc.)  I recently, tried to published a pseudo incest story and it was blocked by Amazon.  Then I tried to publish it through a book aggregator called Pronoun.  Blocked again.

I haven’t published much in this genre (only three books).  Out of those three books two have been blocked.

I find this strange since I often see book with titles like “Daddy’s Little Slave” or “Daddy Punished Me” in Amazon top 100 erotica list.  I knew that writing incest was a big no no, but thought pseudo incest was still acceptable, until I got this message:

  • Depictions of incest and pseudoincest are prohibited. Biological incest, bearing witness to a sexual situation involving a biological relative, or pseudoincest between step-parents and step-children are all prohibited.
  • Pronoun has a zero tolerance policy for erotica with characters under age 18. Any depiction or description of an underage character in a sexual situation, bearing witness to a sexual situation, or thinking about a sexual act is strictly forbidden. If you publish a book that violates this guideline, your account will be suspended indefinitely.
  • “Barely legal” erotica is prohibited if the characters have speech or mannerisms that imply they are younger than 18. In general, we discourage publishing any “barely legal” erotica on Pronoun, as it can be reviewed and removed from sale at any time.

I don’t know if any other erotic authors out there have had the same problem.  It doesn’t really bother me much since I never cared for writing in this genre anyways.  The main reason I even wrote a pseudo incest story was an attempt to branch out into other genres.

Figured I would give a heads up to any other writers who were thinking about writing something pseudo incest.  Amazon is always changing what they deem acceptable or not acceptable.  They may be trending in the direction of banning anything closely relating to pseudo incest.  Don’t say you weren’t warned.

Beast Me: The Caretaker (Bigfoot Erotica)

My name is Dara, and I’m a writer. What does that mean, exactly, you might ask? Well in my head, in my imagination, that means I am a creative genius, an artist, feted and celebrated wherever I go, with a string of literary prizes, awards and accolades to my name, as well as a best-selling biography and the occasional Oscar-winning screenplay.

In a parallel universe, successful Dara has three homes: a chic apartment in New York, a luxurious mountain-top cabin in Denver and a cute little villa on Lake Garda. I spend my time jetting between these residences, occasionally penning critically acclaimed novels, poetry and journalism, giving interviews when I get to give the world the benefit of my thoughts, and seducing whichever attractive man or woman I feel like seducing.

So much for the fantasy. In reality, I lived in a horrible apartment in downtown New York, existing on a diet of noodles, green tea and value-brand chips. The noise in my apartment was almost constant and included barking dogs, jaw-shuddering metal from the Slayer fan in the next apartment, and all the screeching, wailing, shouting cacophony that comes with living in a city with no money. Oh, and did I mention the damp? And the cockroaches?

I was a writer though. I could cling to that. I even earned some money from it, occasionally. Most of the time I ended up writing 500 word marketing pieces on subjects such as ‘How to Re-engineer your Online Vision’ or ‘What is the future for B2B in the tech space?’ My reward for ploughing through these tedious, soul-sapping paragraphs was maybe $0.01 a word, if I was lucky. Then there were the businesses offering the chance to write in return for a mystery currency called ‘exposure’.  I still had enough dignity to turn those down.

I lived alone. There had been a boyfriend, some time back, though I lost him, inevitably, when I quit my admin job to be a writer. We were drifting apart anyway, but I could see the pained look on his face when I told him what I was going to do. I told him it was going to be great, I would be free, but he didn’t seem to think it was that great, particularly when I told him that I might be short of money for a little while.

I got that right. Having lost Dan, I couldn’t make my rent, so I lost my apartment. I also lost my cat, Oscar. That was probably the worst loss of them all, but there were no pets allowed in my new place, and it was that, or live on the street. I had to hand him over to my neighbour Betty. Two weeks later she wrote me to say that Oscar had been hit by a car. I cried for two whole days, compared to the afternoon of sobbing that marked the exit of Dan from my life. All in all, I think it’s fair to say my writing career was not a success.

So I was open to offers. Any offers. That’s when I came across an advert in the Times. I was sitting at Dino’s, trying to make my espresso last and studying the classifieds, expecting to find nothing. It was one of those filthy January mornings: chilly, wet and grey and I was feeling even more desperate than usual, so I was reading all of the classifieds, even the weird ones looking for cult members or a third wife.

‘Get away from the city. Apply to be a cabin minder. Pay and expenses. Short term work.’

That was it. That was what I needed. Get away from New York and be paid for looking after a cabin. I could write, I could recuperate, it would be perfect. I had enough credit left on my phone so I dialed right there and then. Spontaneity isn’t usually my thing, but poverty and desperation can bring that out in a writer.

Turns out the application was a three minute phone call, in which I explained who I was, how old I was (27) and when I would be available to start (like, yesterday). The only downside was that I would need to get myself to the Catskills on the following Monday morning. Scribbling the details frantically, I said that wouldn’t be a problem.

I was right about that too. Hurrying back to the apartment, I ran into the Slayer fan in hallway, and I mentioned the Catskills. There and then he offered to take me. Turned out he had a car, and was driving his elderly mother to Buffalo early Monday. I nearly hugged him, though I managed to restrain myself.

By the time Monday came around, I was having second, and third thoughts. It seemed like such a long way, such a reckless thing to do. I had my belongings packed, such as they were: A bulging sack of clothes, my beat-up laptop, a few bits of make-up and that was it. The Slayer fan, who was called Matt, knocked on my door early, and, still half-asleep, I followed him down to his car.

It still felt crazy when I sat, tense in his passenger seat, surrounded by fast food wrappers, empty drink cartons, music magazines and general debris. We crawled a few blocks, picked up his mother, who demanded to know whether I was his girlfriend repeatedly, before falling asleep, and then we headed out of the city.

Over the next two hours, as city become suburbs and suburbs became hilly countryside and hills steepened into tree-cloaked mountains, I became slowly acquainted with Slayer’s back catalogue, though Matt’s mother slept soundly throughout. Eventually, we arrived at the Fir Lodge Trail, the place where I was supposed to stay. I thanked Matt and offered him the sum total of my money, which was around $42, but he turned me down and wished me luck, before performing a risky U-turn and tearing off into the distance, blaring the opening track of ‘Reign In Blood’ into the mountains.

The starting point of the Fir Lodge Trail was a typical touristy building: a log cabin with gift shop and café, with a small office at the rear. The place was locked, so I hauled my bag around the back and banged on the rear door. Eventually it opened and I was met by a bearded man wearing a grubby t-shirt and uniform pants.

“Yeah?”

“Er, hi. I’m Dara. I’m here to mind the cabin.”

Recognition dawned on his face, and was followed by an expression that I didn’t quite like the look of. I saw him looking me up and down and I flushed.

“Yeah, you’ll do. He’ll like you. Wait there.”

The door closed again. What did he mean, he’ll like me? Who will like me?

After a few minutes, the door opened again and the man emerged, buttoning up his uniform.

“Come on, I’ll take you to the cabin.”

“What did you mean, when you said ‘he’ll like me’?” I asked, hurrying to keep up with him.

“Did I say that? Just an expression,” he said, striding ahead.

We walked for what seemed like hours, following the hiking trail up the mountain, winding through dense fir forests and the occasional meadow of wild grass. At first the surroundings were uplifting, and I savored the smell of the leaves and the forest, but after a while my calves began to ache and I began to weary of trudging after him. The further we walked, the colder the air became, and the more I began to feel unsettled, as though we were not alone, as though something in the trees was watching us.

The cabin stood in a little clearing, at the crest of a slope. In the distance loomed the shapes of bigger mountains, all shrouded darkly in trees. I stood for a moment, looking back down the trail, breathing in the fresh mountain air, until my moment was spoiled by the looming shadow of Martin, who was impatient to be on his way.

He showed me around. It wasn’t much, in terms of luxury, but compared to my apartment, it was a palace. There was a pretty bedroom with a grand double bed, a kitchen, bathroom, and a living room. Martin ran through how everything worked, explained that I could order groceries and he would have them brought up to the cabin every two weeks, and told me to lock the door and stay inside if I heard a bear.

“Do you get many bears?” I asked, nervously.

“Not many,” he said. “They don’t like to hang around in this area.”

“Why?” I asked.

He smiled, but didn’t answer. I had more questions, but Martin seemed keen to go, and soon I was standing alone at the door of the cabin, completely isolated in the wilderness, wondering if I was doing the right thing.

It was already after lunch, so I fixed myself something to eat, tidied the cabin, made the bed and then wandered out onto the front porch. I breathed deeply. It felt wonderful. The tranquillity washed over me. I was completely alone. I could do anything I wanted. I could walk around naked if I wanted to, I thought. So I did.

It felt so good to strip out of my clothes and stand there alone, free. I wandered to the front door of the cabin and peered outside. I knew that there was no-one around, but instinctively I was reluctant. At the back of my mind, in my wilder moments, I had envisaged walking around naked, bathing in a mountain stream, but when it came to it, I wasn’t quite ready. Besides, I told myself, it was a little cold.

So I wrapped a sheet around myself and wandered into the bedroom. The bed looked so inviting. I lay down and as I lay there in the silence, I lazily ran one hand over my body, feeling my right breast. Instantly my nipple began to harden, but I was more tired than I had realized because soon I fell asleep.

I woke to the sound of an unearthly roaring. I jerked upright on the bed, immediately feeling cold. It was dark. Outside there was another roar, and a deep, ominous grunt.

Bears!

I ran out of the bedroom to lock the door but as I reached the living room, the main door of the cabin was flung open and the doorframe was filled with something large and dark. I froze, terrified to move, as the bear moved inside, treading heavily and bending low to pass under the doorway. With horror, I realized that the bear was walking on its back legs, and then, as it stood inside the room, it dawned on me that this was no bear.

It stood at least eight foot tall, maybe more and was covered in matted dark hair, much longer than a bear’s, and tangled up with twigs and leaves. It had heavy paws that appeared to end in black claws, but although it was dim and gloomy in that room, I could tell that the creature’s face was not at all bear-like. It didn’t have a long nose, but instead was flat-featured, with a nearly human face, though its nose and eyes were grotesquely proportioned and its mouth seemed to bulge.

Rooted to the spot, I wondered if it had seen me, and if I could escape. It seemed to be sniffing the air, as though it relied on its smell rather than its sight. I took a half step backwards, but the floorboards betrayed me and the creature turned to look in my direction. As it looked, its mouth opened slightly and betrayed gleaming white teeth that glinted in the moonlight. I wanted to scream, but I was too frightened to make a sound.

The creature shuffled closer. It seemed uncertain and was huffing and grunting a little as it stepped across the bare wooden floor of the cabin, drawing closer and closer. I tried not to breathe, not to make a sound. I’d heard that was the only possible way to survive a bear attack, although this creature was no bear, but what else could I do? I couldn’t run, all I could do was close my eyes and hope for the best.

It drew closer until I could smell its dank fur, its animal dampness, until I could practically feel its steaming breath on the top of my head. It towered above me. Even in the dark, I could sense its shadow.

In that moment, when I was so quiet I could hear my own breathing, I felt a roughness on my arm and then felt something close around my bare skin and instinctively I screamed, at the top of my voice, then I screamed again, making my throat raw. The creature relaxed its grip and seemed to shuffle back a few steps. I stood, trembling, uncertain what was happening. The creature had tilted its head, as though it was studying me, watching.

As I stood there, I realized that although I was practically naked in the middle of nowhere, completely defenseless against this powerful creature, I was not afraid. The fear was washing out of me. I looked at the creature, standing uncertainly nearby, snuffling and grunting, as though trying to communicate something.

Without quite knowing why, I stretched out my arm, which looked pale in the moonlight flooding through the window. It hesitated, and then, reached out towards me and suddenly grabbed me by the arm. This time, though, I began to breathe more heavily, I calmed my nerves and let it pull me towards it. It leaned in and began to inspect me, snuffling its nose against the top of my head, pressing down on me, but not too heavily that it hurt. At the same time, I felt it rubbing its paws over my shoulders and my neck and then I gasped as my blanket slipped from my body to the floor and I stood naked, helpless in the grasp of this strange, powerful, but gentle creature.

I felt its paws slide down over my chest, catching roughly on my left nipple, at which I breathed in sharply. It seemed to react, lightening its touch. I tentatively held onto one furry arm as it slid its paw down my body, crossing my stomach, and then, with a start I felt it slip between my legs, roughly pawing at my pussy. I gasped but clung onto the arm, and held it there. I didn’t want the creature to stop.

I could feel it breathing heavily, and I knew that if it had wanted to, that powerful creature could have hurt me, maimed me, killed me even, but it was treating me gently. Its movements were slow and deliberate and its tentative touch between my legs was already making me moan. The sound of my voice seemed to fluster it, confuse it, and it withdrew from me, taking its paw away and shuffling backwards.

At that point I was feeling so aroused. It was incredible that I seemed to have a power over this creature. It was in awe of me a little. I smiled at it, and then, walked slowly out of the room, towards my bedroom. I could hear the creature’s footsteps following me, causing the floorboards of the cabin to creak as it trudged in my wake. I wandered into the bedroom, feeling so sensual, such feminine power and stood at the end of my bed, waiting, breathlessly for the creature to reach the doorway.

As I saw that doorframe filled with its powerful body, the feeling of vulnerability and forbidden sexuality was so strong, it was almost overwhelming, and this time, as the creature approached, I looked down to see that it had a cock, proportioned like a human cock, only much, much larger. It was ten, eleven inches long and standing proud as he walked, glistening a little in the light through the window.

I was breathing heavily as he approached, and this time when he touched me, when he placed his paws on my body, he was a little less gentle, a little more forceful. I gasped as I felt a powerful fury arm slide around my back and pull me close to him. With his other paw he reached down and found my moist pussy. He began to rub, stroking me and the rough sensation sent spasms of pleasure through my body. I moaned and whimpered, locked in his embrace, yielding my body to him, wanting him.

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Summer = Slow Sales

Summer is the worst time to be a self published erotic author, or any self published author for that matter.

My sales have dropped off significantly since May.  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised the same thing happened to me last summer too.

For anyone new to the self publishing game don’t stress it too much.  Yes, the summer months are slow, and it can be discouraging at times but remember things will pick up once September rolls around.  November through February is the real sweet spot.

Use the summer time to relax.  Don’t try to push out more stories to match previous month’s sales totals (I did this last summer).  You will burnout and your writing will suffer.

Save that energy and creativity for the Fall & Winter months when you’re stuck inside because of the cold.  You don’t have to totally abandon writing for the summer but you may want to lessen the workload a bit.