forbidden

Daddy?!

Excerpt from Daddy?!:

Hey, how are you? I’m Samantha, or Sam, if you like. My mother says when I was a girl, I used to insist that I was a boy and that everyone should call me Sam. I got the impression as I was growing up that she was worried I was going to turn out to be a lesbian or a transgender person or something like that. I think she was ‘relieved’ when I turned out to be a tall, sexy, confident young woman, with a healthy appetite in men. But given what has happened recently, maybe she might wish I was a lesbian after all. She would certainly have less to worry about!

But I’ll get into that soon. As it happens, I do remember being kind of boyish. But that changed, almost overnight, about the age of 15, when I looked in the mirror and saw a gorgeous young woman staring back at me. It was quite a revelation. I mean, I’d always assumed I was ugly – that’s what our society gets young girls thinking – if you’re not a princess, you’re ugly. I knew I wasn’t a princess because I liked baseball and rude jokes and climbing trees.

Yet when I looked in that mirror, I realized that, actually, I was pretty. More than pretty. I was hot. I had options. And I didn’t waste any time exploring them.

I kind of went off the rails at that time. I had boyfriends, I went to parties, I tried drugs; nothing heavy, and they didn’t stick, fortunately. I had a fantastic time. I also blew any chance I had of going to college. So at the age of eighteen, my mom had that conversation with me: the one about getting a job. I preferred that one to the conversation about finding a good husband or the talk that ended with her recommending I start acting more ‘ladylike’ whatever the fuck that was.

So I did what she asked. I got a job. I got a job as a stripper at Angels, a club in the city. I told her I was a waitress, which she thought was bad enough. I remember her look, when I told her I was waitressing. For about the one-thousandth time in my life, she gave me that disappointed look. It was that look, more than anything else, that made me determined to see the job through.

Next evening I caught a cab into the city and my career as a stripper began. If I had been the good little girl my mom wanted me to be, I would have been shocked at what I saw there. It was kind of strange to see so many men cheering and lusting after half-naked women, but the way I rationalized things, it wasn’t so different from a normal night out, only this time the desperate men had to pay a lot more for the privilege of spending time with us.

The money was good too, even if the hours were a bit crazy. On a few Sundays I was just getting back to our house, walking in half-asleep, wearing a long jacket and not much else, just as my mom was heading out to church. I was usually too tired to listen to her lectures, and just crashed on my bed. I wasn’t worried that she would find out. For one thing, my mom kept herself to herself. We didn’t have a wide circle of family or friends. And for another, I wore a wig, a red one, while I was dancing, and went by the name of Cassie.

The dancing was easy. I mean, I’ve been dancing and performing since I was young: ballet, tap dancing, cheerleading. Once I got past the initial nerves, I felt free and natural up on stage, and I picked up some tips from the other girls. I was only a stage dancer to begin with. Roxie, who ran the club, asked me several times if I was ready to do private dances, but I always said no. That was where the real money was made though, so eventually I gave in.

I wasn’t planning to, but I had just come off stage, when Helen grabbed me and told me that some guy wanted a private dance. I told her I was too tired, but then she said he had been pretty insistent, and that he was kind of cute for an older guy.

An older guy. Older guys are my weakness. I have never been with an older guy, in fact, for all my partying, I’m still kind of inexperienced and one of the reasons is I’ve yet to find the right guy. That right guy is probably in his fifties, fit, tanned, looks after himself, and maybe has a touch of grey in his hair, but a big smile, and a strong body. He is wise, and kind, and tough. And for the first time in my life, I had finally met someone who fitted exactly that description.

Helen pointed him out to me as we peeped round the stage door. I almost melted right there. I could feel my whole body tingling as I looked at him.

“Okay. Yes. Yes, I’ll do it,” I said

“Great,” said Helen. “Go tell him.”

I looked at her desperately, and she smiled, tapped me on the shoulder and told me that I looked hot and there was nothing to worry about.

That’s not how I felt as I stepped out of the door and headed over to him. Putting on my sweetest smile, I tried not to show how nervous I was.

“Would…would you like a private dance?”

He smiled back, a wide, generous, wonderful smile and I nearly melted all over again.

“Sure. I would be delighted,” he replied, in a gravely, sexy voice. Still a little shaky, I led the way to the private booths. I was wearing a little plaid skirt and a white crop top and I could sense him checking out my ass as I walked, but that didn’t gross me out. In fact it turned me on a hell of a lot, so much so that I gave an extra little wiggle as I walked, just for him.

He took a seat and loosened his tie as I closed the door behind us. The booth was kind of small, but it was big enough for me to perform in, and the intimacy was kind of hot.

“What’s your name?” he asked

“Cassie,” I replied, starting to sway to the music.

“Why don’t you show me your real hair, Cassie,” he said. I hesitated and then I thought, hell, why not. So I took off my red wig and shook out my blonde hair.

“Stunning!” he said, then smiled. I smiled back and the chemistry between us was instant. I put on my very best show for him. I started by stripping slowly, untying my cropped top, slipping out of my skirt, all the time turning, showing him every part of me. I could tell that he was getting into it, his lips were slightly parted, and he was clearly getting stiff. Throwing off my top I lifted up my leg and planted my foot on the arm of his chair. Then I straddled him, feeling his bulge against me. I was so close, he must have felt my heat, my dampness. If he’d grabbed me right then I would have let him fuck me. But he didn’t of course, he was a perfect gentleman.

Later I asked the other girls if it was normal to get turned on doing a private dance, at least, the first time. Helen laughed and Donna said that had never, ever happened. That didn’t help. I wandered out of the club and into my bed that night as though I had met the man I was meant to be with and fallen in love. It was foolish, I kept telling myself, but I couldn’t help it.

The man showed up three more times. Every dance I did for him was as hot as the last one. The third time we were practically fucking in his lap. The dance overran by ten minutes and I was so lost in it that I didn’t realize until security started banging on the door, asking if I was okay.

I finished early that night and wandered home in a daze. I knew how I was feeling was crazy. I mean, I didn’t even know his name. But I was lost in love or lust or passion; I didn’t know what to call it, all I knew was that I wanted him, wanted him more than anyone.

Continue Reading…

Advertisements

Caught & Taught: Lessons From Daddy

Excerpt From Caught & Taught: Lessons From Daddy:

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.

Continue Reading…

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