Everything Erotic is Closed

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Artist's Touch by Kerry Adrienne ~ Guest Post

Content Alert: This book contains hot, sexy scenes of M/M interaction of an artistic nature. Who knew having your portrait painted could be so hot?

 

Artist’s Touch

The Guild, book one (Sculptor’s Desire and Guitarist’s Wish coming soon!)

By Kerry Adrienne

 

 

Blurb:  

Every starlet wants master painter Kenon Alavi to do her portrait…and more. But Kenon prefers firm to soft and sates his desires with the boyfriends of the women he paints, enjoying the diversity of many lovers but shunning any attachments. 

 

Wallace Harte’s English degree isn’t helping him find a job and working at a bar is the closest he’s gotten to being the Second Coming of Faulkner. Something’s gotta give soon or he’ll be out on the street. 

 

Kenon zeroes in on the bartender at an art exhibition, intending to add him to his long list of conquests, but Wally bolts, initiating a heated game of cat and mouse. Kenon delights in the game until he discovers what Wally is writing. Feeling betrayed, Kenon swears off all entanglements until he reads Wally’s story and discovers true love is sometimes between the pages and not the sheets. 

 

A Romantica® gay erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

 

 

EXCERPT:

Another day, another drink for those who had dollars. Wally slipped the candied cherry into the Manhattan and handed the glass to the tall brunette leaning against the bar. With barely a nod, the woman slinked away as if on skates, joining one of the clusters of patrons waiting on Kenon Alavi’s arrival. The artist, notorious for being late, probably wouldn’t arrive for another ten minutes at least. Light jazz floated through the air from the ensemble set up in the far corner and spots of colored lights beamed up the walls to the tall ceilings that arched over the studio space. This would make a great setting for a novel, Wally mused. Too bad he didn’t have the plot to go along with it. His creativity had hit an impasse as cliché as the proverbial brick wall.

 

“Martini. Wet and stirred, no olive, no twist.” The man put his hand on the bar and looked over his shoulder toward the gallery door. “I’m tired of waiting. Don’t care how special Alavi thinks he is, my time’s important too.” He tapped his fingers on the bar. “Annoying bastard. Wouldn’t be here if my wife wasn’t so keen on having him paint her.”

 

Wally pulled out the glass for the martini, not speaking to the customer. He’d been hired to make drinks, not socialize. The man was just complaining anyway. He wasn’t really expecting a conversation, especially from the bartender. Plus, tonight Wally had to remember all the different highbrow cocktails. He rarely served anything but beer and frozen drinks back at the Cellar Bar. He poured the vermouth into the sloped glass, then stirred the concoction. As long as Mr. Alavi paid his wage, who cared when he actually showed up? His gala, his schedule.

 

“Told her we could get a portrait done for a lot less but she insists on this guy.” The finger tapping grew more vigorous. “He’s refused her calls for two months now. Arrogant bastard.”

 

Wally nodded and set the drink in front of the man. Mr. Alavi sounded like a typical snobby artist. Big surprise. “Here you go, sir. Wet and stirred. No olive, no twist.”

 

“Top shelf?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow. He toyed with the rim of the glass, running his finger around it as if he was checking for chips.

 

“It’s all we serve,” Wally mumbled, wiping up a few drops of condensation from the top of the bar. Alavi’s guests were snobby too. “Only the best.” Bottles of fine alcohol that could pay off his student loans with cash left over for a few months of rent. He looked out over the room of people. Wealth and privilege as far as he could see, well, except for the musicians in the corner. He smiled. At least they were making a living off their art. One day he would too—if he could ever shed his writer’s block.

 

The man shrugged and tipped up the glass, finishing off the cocktail in one gulp. He held the glass to the light and examined it, then set it on the bar. “Good thing Alavi has an open bar at this reception. Otherwise, I’d leave right now, no matter what my wife said. I’ll take another, please. The same.” He resumed his tapping.

 

Wally took out a new glass and prepared the man’s drink. The jazz music was making him sleepy. He’d much prefer something a little more lively. Having spent the previous night out on the town dancing to a club beat didn’t help. But he couldn’t refuse the extra money this bartending gig would put in his pocket. He pushed the glass over to the man and tried not to yawn.

 

Silence hit the entire room at once, echoing off the vaulted ceiling in thick waves. Someone gasped, then the patrons broke into applause. Mr. Alavi had arrived. The large front doors banged closed and the music softened.

 

Drink forgotten, the man strode off to join the mass of bodies that now moved as one as they pushed toward the door where Mr. Alavi waited to be greeted. Wally squinted to see what the excitement was but the crowd blocked his sightline. He’d heard the artist put on quite the spectacle and with the number of people and amount of money spent on the reception tonight, he didn’t doubt it for a second.

 

The crowd parted like the Red Sea in front of Moses and a man walked toward the grand doors that led to the open studio in the back of the room.

 

Wally stared.

 

Mr. Alavi’s stopped to shake hands with a tall gentleman and then moved on through the crowd. Light glinted like a beacon off the silver brooch at his throat. Murmurs filled the room—whispers, really. Like a creature of the night, Mr. Alavi was dressed in black from head to toe with a few flashes of silver sparkle sprinkled here and there. God, why did all the handsome men have to be rich and unattainable? Alavi was probably straight too. Life was definitely not fair.

 

Wally reached for the two martini glasses and bumped one over. He caught the stem of the second one just as the glass bowl shattered against the bar. His heart pounded and blood rushed to his ears. When he looked up, Mr. Alavi was staring at him, looking him right in the eye with a piercing gaze and unreadable expression. Everyone in the room watched. Wally’s face flooded with heat and sweat trickled down the back of his tuxedo shirt. Fuck.

 

“Sorry,” he stammered to no one in particular.

 

Before anyone could respond, Mr. Alavi moved in his direction and Wally’s throat tightened. Would he fire him on the spot? He began picking up pieces of glass and dropping them into the bar wastebasket, avoiding Mr. Alavi’s approach. Way to go, Wally, blow your chance to earn some extra cash. The one glass probably cost more than the night’s wages.

 

He bent to drop a large piece of glass into the trashcan, still holding on to the marble bar with his free hand. He squeezed his eyes closed. He’d get through this. Bile rushed into his throat. Why did he always screw things up? He took a deep breath. What was the worst thing that could happen? He’d been fired before and for worse offences.

 

A warm hand covered his, sending a wave of fear up his arm. Wally stood, coming face-to-face with Mr. Alavi. Wally wanted to pull his hand away and run but fifty wealthy snobs would stop him before he made it to the front door and onto the New York streets. He was trapped.

 

“Everything okay?” Mr. Alavi asked, his voice as smooth and dark as his slick black satin shirt.

 

Wally met the man’s gaze—green eyes lined in kohl, set in warm skin that shimmered in the bar light. Black spiky hair dusted with glitter.

 

Mr. Alavi squeezed his hand and Wally shivered.

 

“I said, is everything okay?”

 

“Y-y-yes,” Wally stammered. Even from over the bar, he could tell that Mr. Alavi was tall, well over six feet. His shoulders broadened and then tapered to trim hips. Wally’s mouth filled with saliva. The man was hot. Even if he was about to fire him for breaking the barware.

 

Avoiding eye contact, Wally studied the black leather jacket Mr. Alavi wore. It was no rental but made to slip around his body like water, hugging the right places, with a few silver studs and spikes on one shoulder. Designer-made, no doubt. In place of a tie, he wore a silver serpent brooch pinned at the neck, its eyes made of tiny rubies and its forked tongue licking out.

 

Wally gulped and his already-warm face burned. The man must think he was an idiot, drooling and fumbling like a fool. The crowd had gone back to chattering and mumbling but a few people still glared toward the bar, probably annoyed that Wally had taken the artist’s attention away. Mr. Alavi lifted his hand and pulled Wally farther down the bar, away from the rest of the broken glass. The artist looked out at the crowd. Wally didn’t see the look he gave them but anyone staring suddenly turned away and ignored the scene at the bar. The man had the power, no question about it. This was his scene and his alone. Wally’s pulse quickened. At least he wouldn’t be totally humiliated by stares when Alavi fired him.

“What’s your name?” Alavi asked, squeezing Wally’s hand.

 

“W-w-wall…Wallace Harte, sir. I’m sorry I broke the glass.”

 

He brushed away Wally’s comment with his free hand. “Ah. An unusual name.

 

Wally for short?”

 

Wally nodded and gulped down the panic in his throat.

 

“Call me Kenon,” the artist said, stretching out his name in a French-sounding accent. He ran his thumb over Wally’s knuckles in a slow circular motion and Wally closed his eyes.

 

The scant hairs on his arm stood erect and he hoped Kenon couldn’t feel how damp his palm was beneath his grasp or how his pulse beat a frantic escape rhythm. From the corner, the music started playing again and the low murmur of the crowd drowned the silence in his ears. Deep breath.

 

“Thank you, sir,” Wally said. He opened his eyes and met Kenon’s gaze. For a moment, he stared into Kenon’s green eyes, pausing to fully examine them. Enhanced with dark eyeliner, the artist’s eyes almost glowed with feral sparkle. Predatory. Waiting. Wally looked down, not daring to move his hand. Mr. Alavi must be quite the lady-killer. Who wouldn’t want to be with him?

 

“Time to open the show, Mr. Alavi,” a gallery aide said, sidling up to Kenon at the edge of the bar. “Everyone’s getting impatient.” Wally had seen the aides milling around, making sure things stayed perfect. It must cost a fortune to produce an event like this.

“This is my show. Let them wait,” Kenon growled and clamped down on Wally’s hand.

The aide looked at Wally and smirked. “I’m sure the bartender won’t mind talking to you after the show.” He emphasized the word “bartender” as if it were a dirty word.

Kenon snapped his head and turned to the man. “I said I’m busy.” This growl was louder and deeper and the aide’s eyes widened and his shoulders tensed.

 

“Yes, sir,” he said and backed away, hands up.

 

Wally began to shake. He tried to tell himself it was from the air-conditioning but he knew it was from a mixture of fear and longing to be near this mysterious man. The artist must always have a rapt audience. Despite his growling, everyone seemed to be taken in by his charm. Kenon milked Wally’s finger in a stroking rhythm and Wally clenched his thighs together, willing his dick to be still. Kenon was too close and it was a good thing the bar was between them or things could get embarrassing.

 

“Now,” Kenon said. He tugged Wally’s hand close to his chest, tightening his grip once again. “Lean in so I can whisper what I have to tell you. Privacy you know.” He smiled, a tight line of control.

 

Wally leaned toward Kenon, drawing in a deep breath of what was likely the most expensive cologne he’d ever smell, combined with a fresh scent that could have been makeup or fine-milled soap. Underlying everything was an all-male scent of danger combined with sex and power. The bar was cold against his chest but the man’s breath was hot in his ear. “Yes?” he asked, voice trembling. “I’m sorry I broke the glass.”

 

“I said I’m not worried about the glass.”

 

“What, then?” Wally squeaked out.

 

“Why are you shaking?” Kenon touched his nose to Wally’s earlobe and Wally tensed. “Am I too close?”

 

“I…I…don’t know,” Wally said, his breath stuttering in his throat. Why was he shaking? He’d not had a boyfriend in ages but had never responded to man’s presence so strongly and so urgently before. Especially a straight man. At least not while he was sober.

 

Kenon pressed closer and his warmth radiated over Wally’s neck and face. Wally stood statue-still under the assault of heat. “I want to see you after the show,” Kenon whispered. “Will you stay around? To…talk…”

 

Wally nodded. Was he in trouble?

 

“Goooood,” Kenon blew. “See you then.” His lips brushed Wally’s ear and then he nipped it gently, holding on to the lobe for a second before releasing it. Wally shuddered as heat jolted straight to his groin. Why was Kenon flirting? Wasn’t he straight? And why was he so close? Wally squirmed as his pants tightened and his dick disobeyed the order to stand down. The ruby eyes of the serpent brooch glinted as Kenon pulled away.

 

Viper.

 

Just as quickly as Kenon had latched on to Wally’s hand, he dropped it. Turning, he sauntered off as if he were strolling along a promenade without a care. The crowd, cued into his movement, followed him through the open doors to the main exhibit hall. Wally stared after him, watching the people meander into the larger room where Kenon’s latest paintings would be unveiled.

 

What had just happened? And why had he agreed to meet Kenon after the show? He knew better than to tempt fate with an employer, especially one he was so attracted to and who was so out of his league. He always screwed things up. He adjusted himself and sighed. What did he have to lose?

 

 

Copyright © KERRY ADRIENNE, 2014 All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc

 

About the Author:

 

 

Kerry writes about love in its many forms, and enjoys exploring the dynamics of relationships and the quandaries people get themselves into. She lives in suburbia, but is making plans to escape to the ocean and NYC, as both places hold a piece of her heart.

 

 

You can connect with Kerry here:

Blog

Facebook

Twitter

Goodreads

Pinterest

 

You can purchase Artist’s Touch here:

Ellora's Cave

 

 

 

 

 



Next installment of The Adventures of Wonderslut

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The Adventures of Wonderslut, New Year's edition

’Twas the night before New Year’s and a great excuse for a party.  Felicity would have to assume her mild-mannered orchid hybridizer persona as she did every year when she hosted her annual bash for the local merchants.  Things usually got good and happy with a little help from the contents of the punch bowl.  This year, she had some of Ma's herbs.  She'd only used a tiny dose to spice things up.  After all, this was a trial run to study the effects on people so she could use the potions to their best effect in her work.  Plus, it'd be a lot of fun.

She glanced around the display and sales areas of the orchid house.  The caterers and decorators had done a fabulous job this year.  Cloth covered tables held platters of delicacies.  Cheeses, sliced ham, caviar.  Chocolate gushed from a fountain, surrounded with bowls of pound cake and fruit for dipping.

The stuffed mushrooms were the key.  She'd mixed Ma's herbs into the bread crumbs before she'd broiled them herself.  She could compare people who ate them with people who only imbibed the alcohol-laced punch for a more or less systematic measure of the horniness power of Ma's magic.  And she had one particular experimental rat in mind.

Jay sauntered in, dressed in his gosh-golly, young computer geek costume.  Jeans with torn knees, a t-shirt from the nearby university, and a sideways baseball cap.  One would never guess by looking at him that below the various fabrics lay the world's greatest fucking machine...the Piston of Love.

"It all looks great, Lys," he said.  "The orchids make it really special."

Her precious flowers showed their blooms proudly all around the room.  In all shades of purple, orange, yellow, and red, they filled the area with enough color to steal a normal person's breath.  Her work as Wonderslut kept her away from the plants for too long.  She needed to make a New Year’s resolution to spend more time in the nursery.

The bell went off over the greenhouse door, announcing their first guest.  Mr. Rossi, the bread baker from down the street, appeared with one of his beautiful loaves under his arm.  He handed it to Felicity and grasped her face to plant a kiss on each cheek.  “Ciao, cara mia.  You are as beautiful as always."

That was a bit of a stretch, given her ill-filling clothes, lack of make-up, and the bun at the back of her head, but Mr. Rossi treated all women as if they were royalty.

"Ciao right back," she said.  "So glad you came."

"Would not miss," Mr. Rossi said.  "And here's the fine young man."

"Hi, Mr. R.," Jay chirped.

"Help yourself to everything," Felicity said.  "Be sure to try the mushrooms."

"Atsa nice."  Mr. Rossi headed off toward the buffet tables.

The bell rang again, and more people entered.  The nice, older couple who ran the hardware store.  A bite or two of the mushrooms could spark up their new year.  The young widow who owned the Cake Shoppe arrived with them.  If she got into the herbs, Jay could probably scratch whatever itches she had if one of the other guests didn’t get there first.  It’d be a good thing for her to start the year off getting laid.

Yes, it should be a memorable evening for everyone.  Felicity certainly did her civic duty with this party every New Year’s Eve.

The newcomers, the Hendersons and Sally Rohl, stopped by to greet Felicity and Jay.  Sally might already be showing some interest in Jay.  He did his usual innocent routine, but that could change as the evening went on.

One of the caterers wandered by, and Felicity handed over the loaf of Mr. Rossi's bread.  "Slice this and put it on the table with some of that special cheese."

The woman nodded and head off toward the kitchen in the back.

More guests arrived, each wishing Felicity and Jay happy holidays.  Pretty soon, glasses were clinking, and conversation filled the orchid house.  The mushrooms were disappearing as fast as the caviar, and Felicity did a little mental arithmetic about how long the herbs would take to have an effect.  People ought to get happy pretty soon.

The bell rang again.

"Uh-oh, look who’s here," Jay said.

Hiram Jacko, the experimental rat, and his wife had arrived.  Jacko glanced around with his usual imperious air, while his better half, Phyllis, wore her usual empty smile and stare.

"I can't believe he came," Jay said.

"I invited him," Felicity said.

Jay's jaw dropped.  "You did?"

"What better subject for my experiment?"

"Jacko?"

"Of course."  Jacko owned and operated the local Values Emporium in the strip mall across the street.  It sold all kinds of treacle for helping to assure that no one ever had any fun.  Especially young people, who if left to their own devices, might think up new and creative ways of having fun.  Horror!  The values folks couldn’t have that.  So they sold tracts on morality and classic works of literature with all the juicy parts cut out.  It was a wonder William Shakespeare didn’t haunt the store for all the damage they’d done to some of his work.

Jacko loved to deliver lectures on morality and the general lack thereof in today’s society.  So far, Felicity's masquerade as a meek orchid nurserywoman had held up under his scrutiny, but she'd thought she'd caught a lecherous glare from Jacko on occasion.  If he was truly the upstanding citizen he claimed to be, he'd resist any evil impulses created by Ma's herbs and keep himself only unto his wife.  If he was actually the leering creep she suspected, he'd probably get one of the female guests alone in a corner of the greenhouse before the evening had ended.

"What about his wife?" Jay asked.

"What about her?"

"Does she always have that same empty stare and mechanical smile?"

"Wouldn't you if you were married to Jacko?" she said.

Jay shrugged.  "I guess."

"Go get another tray of the mushrooms from the kitchen," she said.  "Let's get ready to rumble."

Felicity went to the buffet table and poured herself a generous glass of punch.  Sipping, she glanced around at her guests.  Someone had turned on the stereo and found her favorite Marvin Gaye album.  A few people had already commandeered the center of the sales area as a dance floor, and bodies twined around each other, moving to the music.  Mr. Rossi had found Sally and was twirling her around and bending her over his arm.  The Hendersons danced more demurely, but the sparkle in Joe's eyes promised Mary would have a very happy New Year’s Eve, indeed.  With a some luck and a little help from Ma, Joe might carry on well into the new year.

More and more of the locals had filled the greenhouse.  Felicity’s party was legendary in this part of town, and she never asked to see invitations.  If you could fit inside, you were welcome.  As a result of having such a large crowd, people could get lost in the crush.  Hands could travel to interesting places between partners on the dance floor, and no one would notice.  The din of music and conversation could cover noises coming from dark corners.  If anyone came in non-orgasmic, they only had themselves to blame for leaving in the same state.

A rather alarming sound came from an area behind her, though.  A woman saying “No” with more than a little fear in her tone.  Anything consensual flew here, but coercion was a major no-no.  Wonderslut could handle the situation easily, but Felicity didn’t have time to change, and Wonderslut couldn’t be seen anywhere near Felicity Plumswindle for fear someone would put the two of them together.  Felicity would have to take charge here, and she set down her glass and went off to do exactly that.

As she might have predicted, the culprit was the self-appointed arbiter of “values.”  Jacko had cornered Cara Simpson, the greengrocer’s wife, and had her pinned against a bench full of flowering cattleyas.  He’d puckered his lips in a perfectly gross imitation of an attempt at a kiss, and Cara had placed her palm against his chest to hold him off.  Cara had bent so far backward to get away from him her face nearly disappeared among the blossoms.

“Mr. Jacko, what are you doing?” Felicity said.

He glanced over his shoulder at her.  “Everyone knows what goes on at your parties.  Why shouldn’t I have a little fun?”

“Maybe because a, your wife is only on the other side of those vandas, and b, Mrs. Simpson clearly isn’t that into you,” Felicity said.

“Rubbish,” he declared and went right back to his attempts to impose himself on his victim.

“All right.  I hate to have to do this.”  Felicity grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.  Not exactly the sort of move an unassuming orchid grower would ever attempt.  “Cut it out, asshole.”

He straightened.  “Why, Miss Plumswindle.  You’re an animal.”

Cara Simpson very wisely used the distraction to make her retreat, which left Felicity alone with a values cop she’d just called asshole.  A horny values cop.

“I’m glad you invited me to this den of depravity,” Jacko said.  “It gives me an opportunity to perform an exorcism, of sorts.”

“Exorcism?”

“Evil, Miss Plumswindle.”  The man got so close he nearly stood on top of her, and she found herself bending backward as Cara had.  Like Cara’s head, hers ended up among the flowers.

“I intend to burn it out of you with the flames from inside my soul,” he went on.  “Flames, do you hear me?”

“Sorry about the heartburn,” she said.  “There’s a fire extinguisher around here somewhere.”

“Rise above the lust,” he declared, pulling her against him.  Something had risen, all right.  It pressed into her belly.  Not impressive in size, but definitely hard.  “Break free from your base nature.”

“I’ll break free from something, all right.”  She hooked a leg around him, caught his knee from behind, and kicked, knocking him onto the floor.  Bending over him, she waved a finger under his nose.  “Now, listen, creep…”

The creep had the presence of mind to grab her hand and pull her down onto him, and in a moment, the two of them were rolling around on the floor, the gravel of the walkway crunching beneath them.

“Hiram!” a voice called out in tones worthy of a Valkyrie.

Jacko stopped wrestling with Felicity and stared upward.  “Phyllis?”

“You’ve been a very naughty boy,” Mrs. Jacko said.  She’d lost the glaze over her eyes, and the smile that usually accompanied it was long gone.  With her height and stout form, she did resemble a Wagnerian lady in a horned hat, and the pile of blonde hair on the top of her head enhanced the effect.

Jacko scrambled out from under Felicity and stood with his hands by his sides, his head hanging down.  “I have been bad, my lady.”

Well, well, well.  Mr. Morality was into kink, and his lady love appeared ready and able to deliver whatever cranked his tractor.  Perhaps she’d gotten into the mushrooms, too.  Whatever the cause, she could keep her husband out of trouble and his hands off the other guests.  In the meantime, Felicity had learned what she’d wanted to know.  The guy was a pervert.

Now, when she used the P word, she didn’t mean someone who enjoyed unusual sexual activities.  Who didn’t?  No, a pervert preyed on other people for their own satisfaction.  Armed with this information, Wonderslut would have to take some action in the new year.  This was a nice neighborhood, and it didn’t need the likes of Hiram Jacko messing things up.

While Felicity had been figuring all that out, the pervert in question had unzipped his pants and dropped trou, and his wife stood with his belt in her hand, slapping the leather against her other palm.  When Jacko moved to bend over the bench full of cattleyas, Felicity dashed to snatch the plants away.  They’d been through enough already.

After she’d stashed the orchids safely under a nearby table, she straightened in time to watch Mrs. Jacko lift the belt and bring it down with a satisfying “thwap” against her husband’s naked buttocks.  His hands were out of sight under the bench, and if she ducked under there, she’d probably get a good view of him spanking the monkey.  She’d pass on the pleasure.  Instead, she left them to their fun.  She had some responsibility for their level of horniness, after all.

Back out in the main party area, the night was progressing nicely.  The Hendersons still danced together, wrapped in each other’s arms.  Sally and Mr. Rossi emerged from another area of the greenhouse.  They appeared disheveled, and Sally’s lipstick was smeared all over both of their faces.  She wouldn’t need Jay’s services, after all.

Both Sally and Mr. Rossi baked for a living, so you might consider them businesses competitors.  That didn’t keep them from walking arm in arm out the door, deep in conversation.  Probably something about yeast.

And when you got right down to it, yeast was a pretty good analogy for the upcoming year.  It’d take a while to ferment, and then you’d have to punch it down a bit around March and let it rise to its full height in summer.  You’d bake it in fall and enjoy the harvest, and the whole cycle would start again once you’d eaten it all.

Well, yeah, as analogies, that one sucked, and she hadn’t even eaten any of the mushrooms.  She’d better go off and do exactly that, washing them down with more punch.  Then, she’d find Jay and ring in the new year with a bang.

Happy New Year from Felicity, Jay, and Alice, the twisted mind behind The Adventures of Wonderslut.

The Voluptuous Correspondence of Lady X, Installment Twenty-Three

My dearest X,

I read your latest, with its lustful story, with great delight.  Trust you to find erotic amusement wherever it hides, even in the kitchen garden of the local vicarage in a town so obscure no one in London would have heard of it.  I pictured your pudgy vicar and his sturdy lady of the parish engaging in naughty role play and laughed along with you.  Your letters always bring me joy even though they remind me that we’re apart.

Shall I purchase some short pants so you may take a ruler to my arse?  We’ll see if that gets Long Tom’s attention.  If not, we’ll find some other way to raise him to his full glory.  In truth, I need no more than your nearness to become erect and ready to fill your chamber with my cock.

There, now.  Merely writing of the possibility has had the usual effect on me, and Priapus stands proud and eager in my pants.  We must find some way to be together again, my darling.  My last thoughts before I drift off to sleep are of you, and I wake every morning pretending I’ll find your face on the pillow next to mine.  I suffer bitter disappointment when I open my eyes to discover you aren’t there.

Now then, I hope I’ve discovered sufficient enticement to win you away from X for several days if not a fortnight.  When I’ve told you of my plan, I’m sure you’ll see that you must not miss this opportunity but will find some desperate way to convince X you have concerns you must attend to elsewhere.  Perhaps we can concoct a story of a lady friend who’s become ill and requires you by her side for some time.  Say you have an acquaintance X knows little enough that he wouldn’t check with her about your whereabouts while you’re away.

Have I piqued your interest, my darling?  Are you clutching my letter in your fists wondering what delights I’m offering?  Be a good girl, and don’t skip ahead but follow my story as it unfolded if you wish to understand the full implications of my proposal.

While traversing the street that leads to the park yesterday, I was hailed to a lady’s carriage standing nearby.  The person in question was someone we’d met at Sir Walter’s party.  You’ll remember Miss Creighton, the mistress of the swinging trapeze.  She’d recognized me walking along and decided to stop to discover if I’d enjoy a bit of voluptuous play while we took a drive through the park.  I could hardly pretend shyness after having fucked her so thoroughly at the salon, but then, you’d been with me to approve (and frankly to enjoy watching) any sexual acts I might engage in with the rest of the women.

I did climb into the carriage to explain the difficulty of the situation…that I had a lover who owns my heart…but before I could raise any objection, she cut me off with a cryptic statement that she had a secret which, if revealed, would easily convince my lover to share me as a reward for her information.

You must remember, my dear, that I’ve suffered your absence so keenly that desperation would make me take any risk to win the chance to see you and love your sweet cunny once again.  Miss Creighton agreed that fucking as violent as we’d performed at Sir Walter’s would not only alarm her driver but would shake the carriage to such an extent as to draw the attention of people passing by.  She suggested, instead, the we reach into each other’s clothing and make each other spend while the scenery rolled by.  I agreed.

Given the contrivances of women’s small clothes, I could hardly have gotten my hand into Miss Creighton’s drawers, but that turned out to be unnecessary as I only needed to press my fingers against her pussy to discover the wetness of the fabric and the firmness of her nubbin.  If I’d had any doubt concerning the latter, her muffled cry of surprise and pleasure confirmed that I had, indeed, found the right spot.

“Now, then,” I said.  “You must tell me the secret you used to persuade me to pleasure you.”

“I will, dear Richard, only let me enjoy your touch for a moment,” she said.  “You do that so well.”

Her eyes closed in rapture, and I continued my stimulation of her clitoris.  After a bit, she seemed to realize she’s promised to touch me, as well, and she reached to the fastenings of my pants and undid them one by one.  By now, my cock had reared his head, and when she finally freed him, he sprang into her palm.

You know I have a passionate nature, my darling, and I’ve kept myself aloof from other women since the day we last parted.  As much as I would have preferred your hand on my cock, I could hardly resist the opportunity to give it some relief from the constant ache your absence causes.  In short, I nearly spent the moment she stroked me and caressed the head with her thumb.

“Why, what a livid color you are,” she exclaimed.  “I do believe you’ll climax soon.  I would so love to watch.”

“Not without your secret first,” I said, although I doubt I could have controlled my response had she insisted on bringing me to orgasm.

“Do indulge me a bit longer,” she replied.  “My secret will be worth your having to wait, I promise.”

And so, I did my utmost to arouse her passions, observing which sorts of touches most excited her.  Her clitoris became quite distended, and I discovered a prominent head.  That I tugged at gently until she fell back against the seat of the carriage and her breathing turned to gasps.  I could hardly fail to recognize her state…right at the boundary separating high arousal from the rapid climb to orgasm.  In that condition, she couldn’t have answered questions even if she’d wished to, so I decided to finish her and rely on her earlier promise to reveal her secret to me.

Within moments, a flush covered her neck and face, and her hips rose as her climax claimed her.  To her credit, she managed not to shout loudly enough to bring her driver around to see if she needed rescue.  Her pussy completely soaked her drawers and, had I had a finger inside her chamber, I no doubt would have enjoyed its rhythmic convulsions.  To all appearances, I’d given her a satisfactory experience, indeed.

Of course, that left my cock without release, and nothing had occurred to lessen its throbbing or crimson color.  When Miss Creighton’s eyes fluttered open, she immediately glanced at where her hand rested on my thigh.

“The poor man,” she said.  “Still so rigid and unsatisfied.”

“I’ve done as you wish,” I said.  “May I not know your secret now?”

“I think not.  I haven’t performed my part of our bargain.”  At that, she grasped me again and proceeded to stroke my whole length, from the base to the head.  I finally admitted to myself that she’d won her point and I’d have to let her watch me spend.  Priapus fairly twitched with delight at my decision, and I rested back against the seat cushions and let her have her way with me.

I did allow myself the luxury of pretending you were caressing me in preparation for a vigorous coupling.  As the carriage rolled beneath me, I imagined you raising your skirts - you wouldn’t be wearing drawers, my darling - climbing over me and guiding your cunny down onto my pego.  For the longest time, we wouldn’t have to move against each other but would let the natural motion of the conveyance give us a gentle fucking.

That fantasy didn’t last for long, however, as my lust had built to such a level that I’d have to come within minutes, if not seconds.  I imagined you riding me while I bucked beneath you.  While Miss Creighton continued stroking me, I pictured the walls of your pussy tightening around me, so deliciously hot and wet, in preparation for your completion.

By that point, I could endure no more, and the climax roared through me.  I released semen into her hand in streams.  Through the haze of fulfilled lust, I scarcely heard her squeals of delight, and when I finally finished, I slumped against the cushions, working to get breath back into my lungs.

Now, my dearest, because you’ve patiently followed my story thus far, I’ll share Miss Creighton’s secret with you, and you’ll see that our reunion is imperative.  She revealed that she’d just learned Sir Walter keeps a very private club in the country.  Several years ago, he purchased a large estate and had it furnished to accommodate several couples for extended licentious enjoyment.  The house is now finished, equipped with everything voluptuaries would need to allow for the fullest enjoyment of each other’s bodies.  She also felt sure she could arrange for us to attend for a long house party, which as you know, could last for weeks rather than days.

What say you, heart of my heart?  Can you get away from X for some time so you may join me at Sir Walter’s new den of iniquity?  Tell me you can.  I’ll hardly sleep waiting for your answer.

With that, I remain,

Your eager Richard.

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Weekend lagniappe: eXcerpt from The Sixth Lover by Alice Gaines

Shortly after the beginning of the second act, Carole had her first visitor—a woman, long-limbed, very elegant and most likely in her fifties. She forged her way right in and took the chair next to Carole’s.

She smoothed an errant curl with a bit of gray in it back from her temple. “Well, young lady, you’ve caused quite a stir. No doubt that was your intent.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Ah, American,” the woman said. “No wonder no one recognized you.”

“Mrs. Carole Rose from New York.”

Instead of doing the obviously courteous thing—returning the introduction—her visitor pretended to look around. “Mr. Rose doesn’t seem to be in attendance.”

“He died several months ago.”

“My condolences. My mouth gets away from me sometimes. I’m Bertina Hammond, Lady Blakely, but my friends call me Bert.”

“I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Lady Blakely.”

“Well done, Mrs. Rose.” The lady’s smile broadened.

“Because I addressed you formally?”

“Because you didn’t assume I’m your friend.”

The music swelled as the tenor finished his aria. Applause rolled through the theater, as people jumped to their feet. Maybe some of them had listened to the singing. Carole also rose, as did her visitor. They clapped politely for a while and then sat back down.

“So, have you satisfied your curiosity, Lady Blakely?” Carole asked.

“Not entirely.”

“I’m not very interesting.”

The lady laughed. You couldn’t call it actual mirth, but it had a musical quality to it. “A woman alone in one of the best boxes? You had to know you’d attract attention.”

“I hadn’t counted on you to visit.”

“I daresay not, but ah, yes…here he is.”

Lady Blakely turned toward the back of the box, and Carole followed her gaze. Mr. Harthorn entered, went straight to her visitor, and placed a light kiss on her cheek.

“Hello, Bert,” he said.

“Hello, darling,” Lady Blakely answered. “I might have known you’d show up.”

“I can never stay away from you for long,” he answered.

“Liar.” Lady Blakely patted his cheek and rose. “Behave yourself with Mrs. Rose here. She’s American and doesn’t understand our ways.”

“No one understands your ways, Bert,” the man said.

“You’re such a bastard.” The lady rested her hand on Carole’s shoulder. “Watch out for this one.”

“Thank you for stopping by,” Carole said.

Lady Blakely left the box with an angry rustle of silk.

Mr. Harthorn sat in the now vacant chair next to Carole. “You mustn’t pay any attention to Bert. Her claws are sharp but don’t go very deep.”

“Do all people in England wander in without an introduction?” Carole asked.

“We’ve met.”

She studied him. His brown eyes sparkled with mischief, and his sable hair curled around his collar in a style too long for proper fashion. With his long legs and broad shoulders, he cut quite a figure. He was an indecently attractive man and obviously knew it.

“This afternoon, although we weren’t introduced,” he said. “I’m Roger Harthorn, as I’m sure your companion told you. She was quite scandalized.”

“You know Mrs. Carter?”

“I’ve observed her type often enough.” He gave her an insolent smile that dazzled, even in the near-darkness of the theater. “The posture gives them away as well as they way they pretend not to be staring. Dudgeon of the highest order.”

She couldn’t help but smile, too. He’d described the solicitor’s wife to a T.

“Do you enjoy the opera, Mr. Harthorn?” she asked.

“I tolerate it well enough,” he answered. “You?”

“I like it very much.”

“Don’t tell me I’ve finally met someone who comes here for the music,” he said.

“I’ll admit that wasn’t my only reason.” Her cheeks grew warm. They’d be quite pink now, but with any luck, he wouldn’t notice in the dim light. She’d never learned how to flirt, and at her age, she’d probably never catch up.

“You hoped to be seen, or you wouldn’t have taken a whole box for yourself,” Harthorn said. “I hope the person’s worth all the trouble and expense.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“A man. Of course. Give me his name, and I’ll arrange an introduction.”

Damn. What did she say to that? She didn’t have a name and didn’t want to meet anyone else, anyway. but she’d never find the nerve to tell Harthorn she’d come looking for him.

“A secret, eh? Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s seen you.” Harthorn rested his arm on the back of her chair and leaned close enough to put his lips near her ear. “He noticed you this afternoon well enough.”

Ah, yes. The brush of his fingers on her table as he’d gone by. “I don’t see how you could know that.”

“Mrs. Rose, let’s not toy with each other.” His voice came low and sweet, his breath tickling her ear. “We forged a connection this afternoon.”

“You’re exaggerating a bit, aren’t you?”

“Not at all. I haven’t reacted this powerfully to a woman since I was a lad.” He took her hand and set it in his lap, pressing her palm against the front of his pants.

Oh, dear Lord. She tried to pull her fingers away, but he held them there. “I got this way from simply watching you sip tea.”

Her heart hammered, and she had to remind herself to breathe. After all these months, she had her hand on a man’s member. Through his pants, yes, but the outline was unmistakable—long and thick and so very hard. Exactly what she craved. Deep inside, her own sex got the connection he’d spoken of. Despite the impossible situation, her pussy felt empty, begging for what it hadn’t had for so long.

No—had never had. Oscar was never like this.

“So, will you slap my face now?” Harthorn asked.

She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “No.”

“By God, you’re direct. An Englishwoman would have dodged and dallied.”

“I’m too old to dally,” she said.

“And thank the Almighty for that.” He bent toward her again, this time placing a soft kiss on the naked skin of her shoulder. “May I know your first name?”

“It’s Carole.”

“Carole,” he repeated, before gently nibbling his way toward her neck. Her breathing grew labored as he left pinpricks of fire everywhere he touched her.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered against her throat.

“You’d better stop. Someone might see.”

He straightened and turned her head toward his. “You’re an innocent.”

“I was married for ten years.”

“But you’re still innocent, aren’t you?”

“I knew my husband on our wedding night.” She tried again to free her hand from where it rested against his crotch. He still didn’t release it.

“But you were a virgin then,” he said.

“That’s the way it’s usually done.”

“How sweet.” That delicious smile curled his mouth. “And you haven’t had a man since he died.”

Since some months before, but she couldn’t betray her husband by confessing it. Instead, she bit her lip and did her best to calm her trembling.

“That only makes me hotter, Carole. My cock’s throbbing now,” he said.

“Shall I stroke it?” Good Lord in heaven, where had that come from? “Through the fabric, I mean.”

A light of pure mischief entered his eyes. “You’d like to do that?”

“I find it fascinating.” She squeezed him, pressing the head with the tips of her fingers. “Could I make you spend that way?”

He sucked in a breath. “I daresay you could.”

“Would anyone notice, do you think?”

“They can’t see into my lap.”

“Will they see this?” She reached lower, between his legs where his sac would be and stroked it softly. That took the mischief from his eyes, but his lips still stayed in that lazy smile. He turned back toward the stage, pretending to follow the opera, but they both knew none of the music penetrated his brain.

What fun. She’d never, in her life, expected to do anything like this, but Thomas had opened her mind to all kinds of delicious possibilities. Thomas. Darling Thomas. Why had she never asked him if he liked opera? She’d have to do that in her next letter. Then, she’d have to ask if he’d like to sit in a public place with her hand on his cock. For now, she’d pretend he was here with her now as she used gentle pressure against the length of his shaft. Up, down, and up again to linger at the tip.

“You do that very well,” Harthorn said. “I wouldn’t think you inexperienced.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

He let out a soft moan. “This won’t take long at all.”

“You mustn’t give anything away with your expression,” she said. “Your friend, Bert, may be watching us.”

“She won’t tell. She likes her husband’s money too much.”

“And you know secrets he wouldn’t want to hear,” she said.

“I say…” His eyes drifted halfway shut. “Could we discuss it later?”

“Of course.” She moved her fingers faster, gripping him as tightly as she could manage through the wool of his pants. He sat rigidly, and his eyes went out of focus with pleasure.

“Talk to me,” he whispered. “Something filthy.”

“Would you like to fuck me, Roger?” There. She’d said it. The worst word she knew.

“God, yes.”

“I’d like that, too. My cunny’s getting damp for you.” That was no lie. Who would have thought that she, a virtuous widow with hardly a dirty thought until a few months ago, would find herself with a perfect stranger like this? Sitting in public, stimulating his sex and telling him she wanted him. “But you won’t have me, will you? No, you’re going to spend in your pants like a schoolboy.”

“Oh…ah…don’t stop.”

“No one can know what I’m doing to you, or I will stop,” she said. “Promise me you won’t make a noise when you come.”

He gritted his jaw. “Bloody hell.”

“Do it, or I’ll leave you hanging.” She paused in her work on his tool. She wouldn’t leave him this way. If nothing else, she wanted to see what he’d do when the climax hit him.

“I promise,” he said in a strangled whisper. “Have mercy. Finish me.”

She squeezed the tip of him and then stroked his length—hard and fast, all the way to the base. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw as his body stiffened. His hips jerked as he climaxed, but he made no sound above a soft grunt. Such a sight he made—the male animal consumed by lust. She’d never watched a man’s face at the ultimate moment before. She’d see Thomas in this state eventually, and he’d witness her ecstasy, too. Right now, Roger Harthorn slumped against his chair, breathing heavily. She finally reclaimed her hand setting it in her own lap.

“That was extraordinary,” he said softly.

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“Like? My dear Carole. The word is inadequate.”

Pride glowed inside her. The idea of taking other lovers had seemed silly and even morally bankrupt when she only wanted one man—Thomas. but she could learn so much before she joined him. How much better to go to him fully prepared to fulfill his wildest fantasies than to have to grope blindly for just the right caresses to make him wild with wanting her.

Yes, Thomas had had it right. She’d experiment with other men and give the benefit of her lessons to her ultimate lover.

“You’re grown pensive,” Roger said. “That didn’t repulse you, did it?”

“Not at all.”

“You seemed willing. Even eager.” His face showed uncertainty, even worry. For heaven’s sake, the scandalous fellow who’d bedded any woman he wanted, actually cared about her opinion of him.

“It was a revelation,” she said. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”

“Nor have I. I usually entertain the lady.” The wicked heat returned to his eyes. “Would you like me to do the same for you?”

She nearly gasped with surprise. “Your hand under my skirts at the opera?”

“Not right now. It’ll be intermission soon.”

“You’ll have to rejoin your friends,” she said.

“Eyebrows will rise if I don’t.”

“Eyebrows have probably already risen.”

“No doubt about that.” He chuckled. “Still, I want enough time to do the job properly.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Will you be here tomorrow night?”

She smiled and nodded.

“I’ll see you then.” He leaned toward her again. “In the meantime, don’t touch your pearl. I want it hungry for my touch.”

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Weekend Lagniappe - EXcerpt "Sex after Death" by Alice Gaines

Sex After Death

Alice Gaines
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2013 Alice Gaines


This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.


In Katy's dream, the man had grown to full size and turned to flesh, but he still held the chill of stone as his body moved over hers. She lay in her bed, somehow able to glance around her room through closed lids. She couldn't see him, but she could feel him, his hands roaming her breasts, his fingers rough around her nipples.

She tried to touch his back to prove he was really there, but her arm wouldn't move. Nothing would move, even when she concentrated on no more than getting her big toe to ease upward.

Her invisible lover had paralyzed her, and though none of this was real, she knew with a dreamer's certainty the creature making such thorough love to her was the planter/statue she'd bought a few hours before, Sir Hung-like-a-horse.

Would she finally get to see his cock fully engorged? More important, would she get to feel it between her legs, seeking the entrance to her pussy and then easing its way in?

As soon as the thought had lodged in her head, it traveled all the way down to her sex and stuck there. Moisture pooled between her thighs. Her body prepared itself for sex well enough even if it wouldn't let her move to get any.

Achy and throbbing, her clit demanded attention. She needed to come. Needed it strongly enough to reduce her to begging. If she could touch herself, she'd climax quickly. Even better if she could get him to touch her with the fingers currently massaging her breasts.

The best of all would be if she could have his cock inside her. No more than a few thrusts, and she'd explode all around him.

Please, her mind shouted, but no more than a whimper came out of her mouth. In response, he continued his torment of her breasts, but now he also nipped gently at her shoulder. His breath fanned over her flesh -- not cold, exactly, but not hot like a human lover's. Cool.

If she could see him... if she could speak... lift her arms to invite him into an embrace and part her legs to make room for him, maybe he'd give her what she needed. At least she could reach to his cock to discover if it had grown long and thick.

After several moments, his hand finally began a slow journey over her belly while his mouth covered one nipple. He sucked with exactly the right pressure to make her heart thunder in her chest.

Her own harsh breathing filled the room, the sound of a woman becoming hopelessly aroused. The throbbing between her legs grew into a fire. So hot. He could put it out if he'd only touch her. He could fix her by giving her the orgasm just out of her reach.

This time, her mind shrieked Please! and a cry bounced off the bedroom walls all around them.

Low, soft laughter answered. A rumbling baritone. He knew what he was doing to her, and he enjoyed it. Could this be the curse? Eternal arousal with no satisfaction could certainly feel like hell. Maybe she shouldn't have watered him, after all. And maybe all the superstition had created a perfectly normal erotic dream. She'd never had one like this before.

It felt so fucking real, as if she really were in bed with an invisible man whose cool touch was turning her molten inside. Was his cock erect? If so, had it maintained its huge size? Could she take it all inside her without any pain? God, she'd give anything to find out. Anything.

As if he'd read her mind, he moved over her and settled between her legs. The tip of his hard-on pressed against her inner thigh -- the swollen head, firm but very human and not cold at all. So hot, it burned as if it had to bathe in her juices to put the fire out.

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The Adventures of Wonderslut - Installment Twenty-Four

When we last left Felicity and Jason, they’d just spent the night and morning with Ma and her five girls, RayAnne, Pearline, MinniePat, SueEsther, and George, and a visitor named Harry.  Quite a handful for our heroes, even the notorious Wonderslut and her sidekick, The Piston.  After a mission well-done, they’re flying home for some rest.

“I really hate you sometimes, you know that?"

Jason had to chuckle as he gobbled down the last bites of his cheeseburger.  Felicity only told him she hated him in regard to one subject...food, especially the greasy, delicious kind like the thousand or more calories he'd just consumed.

With her eyes still focused on the instruments of the Slutmobile, she reached out and snagged one of his fries.

 “If I ate like that, I'd blow up like a blimp."

“Try it and find out."  He held the oily bag toward her.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

“Hey, I'm a guy.  I like my burgers loaded and my women plush."

She pretended to scowl at him, but the curve of her lips betrayed too much smile to pull off any real disapproval.  And she did finish his fries.

When she’d eaten the last one, he took all the wrappings and napkins, wadded them into a mass, and stuffed them into the fast food bag.  “Thanks for stopping.  I was famished."

“No problem,” she said.  “The look on the clerk's face was worth losing time."

The expression had been priceless.  Half way between “What the fuck" and “I must be dreaming."  Felicity had had to wave the money under the guy's nose a couple of times to get him to take it.  “He probably doesn't get too many Maseratis in his drive-up."

"With a woman wearing nothing but a man's shirt at the wheel and a bare chested guy in the passenger's seat,” she said.

"I bet he would have liked the French maid's outfit better."

"What there was left of it," she said.  "That'll be a tax write-off.  Business expense."

"Nice work if you can get it."  He reached over and squeezed her bare thigh.  Come to think of it, she really could do with a bit more padding.

"I hope you're through stuffing your face for a few minutes,” she said

“Funny thing…as soon as the effects of Ma’s food wore off, I could have eaten a horse.”  Had to be some kind of withdrawal thing.  No wonder Felicity felt so out of sorts.  She was probably as hungry as he’d been but refused to eat for fear of harming her girlish figure.  He’d cook her something great as soon as they got home.

“Besides, I had quite a workout,” he added.  “Should I remind you I had to satisfy five women?"

“And you did it without breaking a sweat," she said.  "I'm proud of you, kid."

That wasn't strictly true.  He'd sweated plenty.  Ma's girls had wrung him out like a rag.  In any sane world, he wouldn't get another hard-on for a month.  Working with Wonderslut, Avenger of the Non-Orgasmic, hardly qualified as sane.  He'd probably get a boner the moment they got back to the Slutgrotto.  Felicity could do that to a guy.

“So, what did you and Ma talk about while I said good-bye to the girls?" he asked.

“Business."  She kept her gaze on the instruments, but her eyes crinkled at the corners the way they always did when she had a secret.

“Am I going to find out what kind of business?" he asked.

“Ma and I have a lot in common, when you think of it."

“Riiiiight.  She's an old coot, and you're the world's most desirable woman.  She has a shotgun, and you have a website.”

“There are a few differences,” she said.

“She can cook, and..."

“Okay, so I don't make biscuits and gravy."

“You barely eat."

“What's gotten into you?"  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.  “Don't you like my body the way it is?"

“Love it, but if there were more, I could love all of that, too."

“Not in this lifetime."  She nodded toward the glove compartment.  “Now, why don't you see what's in there?"

He did as instructed and found a brown paper bag.  Inside was a plastic container of what looked like something you might put into a hookah and light.  “Is this what I think it is?"

“You don't smoke it."  Her eyes crinkled again.

“You put it in brownies?"

“You're getting warmer."

“Did Ma give you this?" he asked.

“After a bit of...ah...negotiation," she said.  “Some of her magical herbs."

He put the package back in the glove compartment.  “What did she get out of the deal?"

“Well, it seemed you really impressed her."

Hey, wait a minute.  Doing the nasty with Ma?  No way.  He was an open-minded guy, but a woman old enough to be his mother’s babysitter?  A woman with a shotgun?  No fucking way.  “I hope you didn’t promise her anything.  She’s not exactly my type.”

Felicity laughed loudly enough for her voice to ricochet around the interior of the Slutmobile.  “Don’t worry.  Ma’s not interested in you for herself.”

“The girls?” he said.

She didn’t answer but just smiled.

“Did you offer a return engagement?" he said.

“You could say...something like that.  You had a good time, right?"

“I barely survived."

She patted him on the cheek.  "It's good practice for you.  You're always going to be in great demand, kiddo.  Better get used to it."

He crossed his arms over his chest.  “Have you taken five guys on at once?"

She gave him an evil chuckle.  "Didn’t I ever tell you about the Americans for a Decent America convention?"

"The ADA?  You attended one of those?" he said.

"Undercover.  Research purposes only.  You've never seen a bigger bunch of twits and pervs."

"Really?  I would have thought they'd be squeaky clean."

"You know what I always say...scratch a prude and find a pervert."  She banked the Slutmobile and settled into their regular landing pattern.  They'd be back at the Slutgrotto in a matter of minutes.

"Now, that's a story I'd like to hear," he said.

"Rustle me up some of your special scrambled eggs and meet me at the hot tub.  You won't believe your ears."

*

It had been seven years earlier.  Felicity had just graduated to the top tier of Sly's assistants when Sly gave her her first real assignment - infiltrate the Americans for a Decent America's annual get together.  Disguised as a milquetoast biddy, albeit a young one, she’d dressed up in sensible shoes and support hose, a gray suit with a pleated skirt that fell to mid calf, and a wig that hung into her eyes.  She drew no attention at all when she registered.

The whole scene was sickly sweet...all the vapid smiles and “praise the Lords."  They obviously didn't let atheists in, or maybe atheists had their own prudish group-gropes.  Hard to picture what that would look like.

For the first day of the conference, she attended seminars on “Family Values, Weaponized," "How to Pretend You‘re an Oppressed Minority," “Bringing back the Ladies Auxiliary,” and various other stifling subjects.  By five, she needed a few stiff drinks to wash the taste of all that righteous indignation out of her mouth.  But first, she stopped in the ladies room on her way the hell out of the hotel.

The murmuring and giggling were her first clue that something interesting was going on near the sinks.  She ducked into a stall and climbed up on the toilet seat before any of the fine examples of moral femininity discovered someone was eavesdropping.

"Enrapture," one of the women said.   "My Charles says he's enrolled me in a special session for this evening.  There are a few other openings if you sign up right away."

That was met by squeals of delight of the kind that serious discussions of morality didn't normally elicit.  In fact, their voices held a more or less obvious sexual excitement.  Enrapture, indeed.  Felicity needed to get herself into that session and get names and evidence.  So, when the voices stilled and the door opened, she gave the women just enough time to get out into the hallway before following them.

They weren't hard to spot.  Three perfectly coiffed heads hovered together as the women proceeded down the corridor in a flutter of decent clothing and barely restrained estrogen.  Felicity hung back enough to hide from them while keeping them in her sight.  They went down a small staircase and around a corner to a part of the conference center she hadn't noticed before.  Nothing in particular marked the room where they ended up, just a table at the doorway and an upstanding middle-aged couple taking the registrations.  The pair didn’t remark on the first three women but merely checked their names against a list on their clipboard, but Felicity was another matter entirely.

The woman sniffed.  “She’s not on the list.”

“I-I’m sorry.”  Felicity did her best to stammer in a subservient manner.  “I only just found out about this session, and I do so want to attend.”

“You weren’t supposed to know about it.”  The woman stiffened.  “It’s only for a few select of our members.”

“My dear, why don’t we let the young lady in?” the man said.

The woman stared at him as if he were some kind of idiot.

The man gave her a patronizing smile.  “What harm could she possibly do?”

“She’s not on the list,” the woman repeated between gritted teeth.  She turned an insincere smile on Felicity.  “Who’s your sponsor, dear?”

“Sponsor?” Felicity repeated.

“The man who registered you for this event,” the woman said.

She couldn’t get in without a man.  Didn’t that just figure?  “Oh, you mean my sponsor!  Well, he’s…um…that is he…he’s in the men’s room.”

The woman slowly set down the clipboard.  “And what’s his name?”

“George,” Felicity said.  “George Smith.”

The man gestured toward the closed door to the conference room.  “You go inside.  We’ll send George along when he gets here.”

“Don’t you dare.”  The woman gestured with her head, and the couple moved several feet off to have a private conversation.  By the looks of things, it didn’t go well.  The man loomed over the woman in a particularly intimidating manner, while she gesticulated and got red in the face.  Finally, he waved his finger under the woman’s nose, and the words “submit” and “male authority,’ wafted to Felicity.

After a few seconds, the woman returned, her lips a straight line of displeasure.  “You can go inside now.”

The man opened the door, and as Felicity walked by, he put his palm at the small of her back.

“The changing room is over there,” he said, his lips nearly grazing her ear.  She glanced around.  Newly out of Sly’s academy, she hadn’t yet learned complete control of her astonishment, and she gasped audibly.  He might have said “changing room,” but the women hadn’t changed into anything.  They were all nude.  No, not completely nude.  Each wore a delicate collar around her neck, connecting them by leashes to their male partners.

“I gather George didn’t explain it all to you,” the man said.

“He left a few details out.”

“Then, he hasn’t given you a collar?”

She could answer that question honestly enough.  “No.”

“Don’t worry, there are extras in the changing room.  Take one you like and bring it back to me.”

“You?”  She hadn’t learned to keep the tone of her voice even, either, because the pitch went up a few octaves.  She gestured toward the doorway and the corridor outside.  “What about your wife?”

“She has things to keep her busy.”  His smile turned unctuous.  “I’ll watch out for you until George gets here.”

“I don’t know.  George might not approve.”

A cold light entered his gaze - a warning they could both stop pretending George existed.  “Run along now.  The session is about to get started.”

“Right.  That is, yes sir.”  She eased her way through the crowd in the direction the man had indicated.  Wonderful, she was going to get naked and put on a collar for a man whose name she didn’t know.  Did she even want to know?  Probably not.

For the first time, she took in the composition of the crowd.  Most participants were in pairs - one man and one woman - but several of the men held more than one leash.  Polygyny, of course.  The opposite - one female with more than one male - didn’t exist inside this moral universe, it seemed.  And forget any man-on-man or woman-on-woman love.  Well, hell, where had she thought she was going?

As she walked across the room, the microphone on stage came to life with a screech.  A woman - clothed, this one, and with a bouffant hairdo that made her head the size of a melon - took the mic from its stand.

“Enrapture,” she breathed into the metal orb.  “Ladies, we’re here to show you how to enrapture your men.”

Didn’t that just figure, too?  Rapture didn’t go both ways in their world.

A chorus of ooohs went up around the room.

“And we all know what our men like best, don’t we, ladies?” the woman crowed.  “Oral sex.”

That would probably go in one direction, too, and the man who’d escorted Felicity inside would no doubt expect service from her.  She’d trained for this for years.  She could do whatever he required and do a damned good job of it.

She ducked inside the changing room, finding only one woman who was in the process of fitting a slender leather collar around her neck.

“They’ve started, haven’t they?” the young woman asked.

“Just now,” Felicity answered.

“You’d better hurry,” the woman said.  “The men don’t like it when we’re late.”

And what the men wanted ruled.  “I’ll be right out.”

The woman left the changing room as if she were late for the last bit of chocolate mousse.  Felicity stripped, leaving her clothing in a heap on the floor.  She kept the wig on her head.

Being naked felt good, even under such weird circumstances.  Being naked was natural…the way she conducted business.  It gave her an edge.  Now in her element, she selected a lace collar from the collection hanging from hooks on the wall, fixed it around her neck, and emerged into the main hall.

On stage, the woman with the pouffy hair had settled to her knees before a man in a finely tailored business suit.  She held his rigid and impressive cock in her hand.

“And now, ladies, learn to explore your man,” she said.  “Find his sensitive spots.  Learn how to give him maximum pleasure.  Remember, the enraptured man is a captured man.””

With that, the instructor proceeded to give her partner head with an expertise that would make any of Sly’s students proud.  Well, Felicity could do even better, so she went off in search of her sponsor…whatever the hell his name was.

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