Wedded Bliss now available on Amazon

Hey guys,
I hope you’ve enjoyed these stories, infrequent as they may be. If so, good news! I’ve found a publisher who wants to publish my stories in digital and audio book form. We’ll be publishing stories from here, and also expanding on the characters and themes from these stories. So I’ll be writing more and for just 99 cents you’ll be able to read these stories on your e-reader or computer.
And in the not to distant future you can have me on your headphones, whispering these filthy fantasies in your ear.

Wedded Bliss Cover 2

Pick it up on Amazon now!

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Again

I keep thinking this should be part of something larger. But I kinda think it’s just a very short story.

We were out together, just the three of us, celebrating their engagement. I was happy for them. I was. They were a great couple, perfect together. But I ‘d be lying if I said I wasn’t envious. Not of their engagement. Not exactly. There was no one I wanted to be engaged to. It was their ability to be engaged. To be that sure about someone. To be that sure about anything. I wanted that. I wanted to be sure of something. To think ‘yep, I’ve got that. I’m happy with that. And I will continue to be happy with that for the rest of my life.’ I don’t even know how you do that. I don’t think I know how to be that sure.

We piled into a cab and I ended up in the middle. I don’t know how I ended up in the middle. I didn’t mean to, I just did. We were drunk. And for a while it was fine. But then I felt… aware, somehow, that I was touching my friend’s fiancee, like, a lot of him. Our bodies were pressed against each other because, you know, small cab. And that… that was fine. It was… whatever. It happens. But then I felt his touch change. It became tentative, tender, tainted with longing. And I knew. I knew as sure as instinct. The way that you know you’re hungry. The way that you know you’re in danger. I knew that he wanted me. As much or more than I wanted him.

For a second I saw the affair unfold; the hesitant touches, the trapped and longing glance, the inevitable, breathless, crushing, conclusion. I saw it stretched before me, a bittersweet aria of lust and longing and doomed love. I would stay silent over drinks, devastated by the blue of his eyes. I would have dinner with the two of him and be haunted by the taste of his cock in the back of my throat. I would keep my mouth shut because they were better off together than he with me. My love has an expiration date and theirs… Theirs might actually last. I saw all this sweet, sad, passion laid out before me and all I could think was

“Jesus Christ, not again.”

Unmarketable No More?

A story that was formerly on this site is now available as part of an e-book.

Three’s a Charm is an anthology of paranormal threesome stories. 

Can’t make up your mind between a vampire lover or a werewolf?  Well, unlike Sookie Stackhouse, in this paranormal menage anthology, you don’t have to.

Join eight Ravenous Romance writers in their search for the ultimate supernatural threesome.  Vampires, witches, werewolves, demons, devils, ghosts, banshees, angels and even aliens, all have a thing for some hot humans in these scorching pages!

They have versions for any e-reader you might have including smartphones and even your plain old desktop computer so download it already!

As yet unnamed foot fetish story.

    You’d think, working in a strip club one of two things would happen to a guy.  Either he would spend as much of his life as possible fucking all the coworkers he could or he would be so sick of naked women he would lose any sex drive he ever hoped to have.  Either way, you would not expect a bartender at a strip club to have a girlfriend. But Dan has a girlfriend.  And he swears to that girlfriend that the girls he sees naked every day never really catch his attention.  And if it wasn’t for Darla that would be true.
    Darla dances barefoot on the bar.  It should disgust him.  The bar is filthy.  Her feet are wet and sticky and pick up grime from god knows what.  Her soles are darkened, the arch rising up white out of the dirt.  It shouldn’t turn him on but it does.  A lot of things turn him on that shouldn’t.  The fact that she’s not his girlfriend being one of them. 

  He can’t cheat with her.  There’s something dangerous about her.  Something he can’t quite place.  He knows almost nothing about her.  He doesn’t know where she grew up, what her parents are like, what moments changed her life.  But he knows that if he fucked her, it wouldn’t be once.  He knows that if her fucked her he would love her.  It wouldn’t be fucking.  It would be possession, obsession, maybe even love. 

   Because the way she dances betrays her.  It shows her for the sensual, romantic creature that she is. Her rhythm is fluid;  incapable, almost, of  masculine staccato.  Her dance is vulnerable yet forceful and full of rampant sexuality that she gives herself to so fully you know that it’s only the tip of the iceberg.  Her dance is intelligent.  Her body is intelligent and the few times she speaks to him prove that her intelligence extends beyond her body.  The vocab words she drops like so much clothing stun him every time.  No hooker with a heart of gold, no “I don’t talk so good” shyness for her.  This girl is smart in a way that comes to her like breathing. 

  All this shows in her feet.  Her weight stays on the balls of her feet.  It keeps her movements unpredictable and lithe.   Her contracted toes, her tiptoed dance let her spin, twirl and kick with total ease and without warning.  Her hips are the heart of her dance, its rhythm, its sex.  But her feet are the brains.  They keep her dance fresh, revealing, capricious.  He loves her feet.  He loves her feet and every inch the unbroken line of her legs leads up to.
    She slides to her knees, crawls to him, and asks for a glass of water.  He quickly pours it for her, eyes darting from the exposed pads of her feet to her high arched ass to her rosepetal lips wrapping around the straw and greedily sucking up his water.  She caps the straw with her fingertip and leans back on her knees.  Pulling the straw to her throat she removes her finger and gasps as the cool water drips a path down her torso from the tendon of her neck to the bony plane of her chest and the soft crevice between her breasts.  It’s all he can do to not use his tongue to stop the droplets on their journey to her pussy, just slightly visible through her g-string.  
    Christ how he wants her.  He wants her so much he can’t help but wonder if it would really be cheating to take hold of one of those dainty feet, like Cinderella’s prince, one hand wrapped around her ankle the other holding her calf, and reverently kiss her foot.  That, itself, would not be cheating.  Most definitely not.  No one could fault him for that.  But he knows it wouldn’t stop there. 

  His lips, once touching the bony plane of her foot would seek more, hungrily covering each inch of skin with ardent kisses.  He would press the foot into a flex and press the sole to his face, breathing in deep.  His tongue would trace a slow and cautious path along that proud white arch, along the firm fleshy ball of her foot and slide into the deep crevices of her toes.  At the touch of his tongue she would gasp in delight and the curtain of her hair would fall around to flank her face as she smiled down at him.  
    She has an honest smile that animates her whole body.  She would smile at him and her toes would curl slightly against his face.  His eyes locked on hers he would suck her toes and watch her revel in the sensation.  His hand would make its automatic way to the bulge in his jeans and she would laugh slightly, the way she reacts to a sudden compliment.  Or maybe she would just enjoy her effect on him.  She loves to tease him.  The way she did with the water.  The way she does dancing barefoot on the bar.  He would look up as her, eyes long lashed and swollen pupiled, glistening in the half light of the bar, then look down at her foot, eyes lustily dimmed.  He would suck her foot deep into his mouth, her polished skin running across his teeth and tongue.  He would suck and rub till desire overtook him and he joined her on that bar.  He would kneel at her feet, pants open, hand held firmly around her ankle, pressing her foot against his exposed cock.  The sole of her foot would be smooth and hard like a stone in a river, but warm to the touch.  He would press her foot fast against his cock, moving it urgently up and down his shaft, the insistence of friction moving his hand at breakneck speed.  He would drink her in.  Her honest smile and regal breasts, the smooth curved hollow of her stomach and her impossibly long  graceful legs tapering gently to the perfect curve of her ankle.
    Her toes would be curled slightly, creating more contact with the head of his cock and he would beg her as he’s been wanting to for a year now
    “Please.”  He would choke out.  “Please let me come for you.”  
    Her smiled would widen and her lips would form the most perfect word she has ever said.
    “Yes.”  And his come would gush between her toes, sticky and satisfying.

    But he realizes that somewhere in there he would be crossing the line over into cheating.  So he adjusts himself behind the bar, sticks a dollar between her toes, and goes back to work.

Wedded Bliss part II: The Reception

Nathan. Oh my Nathan. With his pierced tongue and purple hair he still looks absolutely at home in formal wear.
Nathan is the Orgymaker. We started calling him that when his going away party became an orgy and then, on the other side of the country, his housewarming party became an orgy.
He has a charm that seems to touch everyone in the room, soon to be followed by the rest of him. Nathan would be invited to my wedding. Writers call this Foreshadowing.

Booze would flow freely at my wedding reception. Dinner would be fantastic. Several kinds of meat would be served and a rainbow of ice cream flavors served in martini glasses. There would be music and dancing and a chocolate fountain. Flowers and candles would be ubiquitous, along with a feeling of love and goodwill. My best friend would recite the speech from Frida about how marriage is a bourgeois sham but that to know this and get married anyway, with eyes wide open, is revolutionary and romantic.  My reception would be romantic.  My family would be so proud and my friends would be so happy that love would burst forth uncontrollably from every corner of the room strengthening bonds between old lovers and forming new alliances between shared glances over champagne toasts.
And the whole night, through dinner and speeches and dancing Nathan would work the room. He would flirt with every eligible and amenable female, along with several males and couples as well.  Nathan flirts like breathing.  Without moving he charms half the room. My best friend would flirt with all the available straight males. And I would dance with all my old flames. The ones I didn’t hate. The ones I still sleep with on occasion. You know, those ones.
The night would wear on and the relations would filter out till we found our group to be solely comprised of open minded attractive people.  No drunk uncles, no stuffy grand aunts or prudish siblings.
Truly it would be a magical evening.

I’d be dancing with Will, a habit I was never really able to kick (the boy, not the dancing.) I would press my body against his tall, solid frame and feel the desire in his body. He would want me desperately but never tell me so. He always was such a southern gentleman. I would smile at my husband, dancing with my best friend.
“Darlin,” Will would say “I must say you look damn fine.”
“Thank you Paul,” I’d say. “Would you like to kiss the bride?” He would and he would try to keep it chaste. Not that I’d let him.
“Darlin!” He’d exclaim. “It’s your…” And I would jerk my head in the direction of my husband, now making out with my best friend.
“Oh hell” Would escape Will’s lips before I pulled them back to my own. I would revel in the warmth of his mouth, the dexterity of his tongue, till I felt the familiar hand of my husband in the small of my back. I would pull back slowly and in a smooth motion switch to kissing my husband, while my best friend took over with Will, neither of them really minding.
From the corner of my eye I would see Nathan beginning to draw a crowd.

And so would begin an orgy of epic proportions.

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Wedded Bliss Part I: I Wanna Get Married

I don’t really want to get married. I just want to have a wedding. Marriages are about taxes and compromise, a sleepy march towards death or divorce.


Weddings, on the other hand, are parties so huge that other, smaller, parties orbit them.  Think about it; Theengagement party, bridal shower, bachelor party, bachelorette party, and rehearsal dinner.  Around the wedding sun there are five party planets, each of them centered on sex, and smaller event moons; dress fittings, cake tasting,  flower choosing, present buying, present opening, getting dressed for the wedding, getting undressed after the wedding, making toasts, hooking up.  Every moment a small celebration of love and life, friendship and family, beauty of all kinds, rejoicing in the senses.  The look and feel of the dress, the scent and color of the flowers, the lush taste of food and drinks, a reason to see friends and family you haven’t seen for ages.  Why should this amount of joy and sensual delight be tied to such an outdated bummer of a concept  like marriage?  How can one think of knitting their life to just one person while experiencing this much of life?  Shouldn’t everyone be able to have a party this massive?  Even people who don’t want to get married?

I understand, in a way, how and why weddings have been linked with marriages historically.  But in a world where marriage is, at best, a fifty fifty shot at lifelong companionship and tax breaks why would that be linked with a once in a lifetime party of epic proportions?
Marriages are about compromise weddings are about perfection. The perfect spouse, the perfect day, the perfect dress.  Marriages are about the dead end of your sex life.  Weddings are nothing but sex and burgeoning potential.  It’s normally considered uncouth to reach up your girlfriend’s dress, remove her undergarment and throw it into a crowd, but at a wedding it’s required!  And throwing it makes some kind of prediction about who else is going to get laid that night.
We should all be able to run through a corridor of our friends holding sparklers on our way to go have sex. There is never another time in your life when people will be that celebratory about the fact that someone else is having sex.
And Formal wear! There are men in formal wear! There’s a reason men’s formal wear hasn’t changed for the past hundred years and that’s because they’ve simply got it right.  The tux squares out the shoulders and brings the torso into a V.  It’s black and white, which looks good on everyone and it forces men to wear pants that actually fit.

I’m convinced that women pre-plan their weddings because they feel it’s rude to discuss their sexual fantasies in public.

My wedding would begin with the Chris Cornell cover of Ave Maria; a religious song I find intensely sexy.
I would walk down the aisle in a white silk corset with crystal and pearl beading, yards of tulle trailing behind me, glistening like the morning dew. And all over my dress, a spray across my skirt and clinging here and there to my bodice, would be blood red silk rose petals. As I walked down the aisle women would gasp and men would be speechless. My bridesmaids would follow behind me like minions of sex. Bright red satin, sweetheart necklines, short skirts and maybe a little 50’s hat with a veil. The obligatory bridesmaid ass bow would look inviting and succulent, like a present just daring you to unwrap it.
My husband, whoever the fuck he is, the instantly erect man to whom I am affianced would stand tall and proud, a slight sheen on his black tuxedo.  The red rose on his lapel would match the red on my dress.  His eyes would shine and his lips would be slightly parted in wonder.  His eyes would be beautiful, that’s all I know about him.  And odds are good he’d be a brunette.
He would take my hand and we would vow our love. And I would honestly believe that our love would last forever.
The ceremony would end and I would be kissed (with just enough passion to not make my family uncomfortable) and we would run through a corridor of our smiling, rice throwing, bubble blowing loved ones.
Then we’d double back to the now empty church.

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The Poolboy

Life as a pizza guy wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.  Nor was the life of a plumber, a cable guy, or UPS worker.  Tom had tried all of these professions with varying success in regards to finance and competence, but absolutely no success in regards to pornyness.

The odds of an attractive woman answering the door were disappointingly low.  And the odds of said attractive woman being scantily clad for some flimsy reason were astronomically low.  It had happened to him exactly three times in his life; once because the woman had been sleeping when he arrived, once because she’d been taking a shower and a third time because her air conditioning was broken.  In all three incidences the woman had been in particularly irritable moods for the very same reasons.  Not one of them had thrown so much as a smile his way, much less a flash of boob.

And they always, always, always, had enough cash for a tip on them.  Even just the fully clothed, marginally attractive women he called on tipped him only monetarily and, on the off chance she had only an extra handful of change, she’d give it to him, shrug apologetically and gently slam the door on his all too eager face.

Once a woman who’d paid over the phone with her credit card because she had no cash gave him a beer, but that was about as interesting as it ever got.

Tom didn’t understand it.  He wasn’t a bad looking guy.  He wasn’t a great looking guy and he wasn’t what you might call smooth but he was still better looking than most of the guys in those porno movies.  He may not have been as terrifyingly endowed as the men on screen but he was young, he had all his hair.  He was not, like, in shape exactly but he wasn’t fat really.  Hot chicks went for worse looking guys all the time.  Yet here he was in the porn world’s most wanted professions and striking out completely.

This time was going to be different, though.  This time, he was a pool boy.

Pools are the ultimate in excuses for porn to happen.  Being scantily clad is pretty much required for pool usage and, unlike delivering pizza, one can be assured that one is servicing people who get some exercise now and then.

It was his first day on the job and he had hit the jack pot.

The door was opened by a large breasted blond in a bikini.  Her lipglossed lips spread into a wide smile when she saw him.

“Thank god you’re here.”  Her valley girl voice popped.  “The pool is totally dirty.”

Thanking every god he had ever heard of Tom followed her nubile body through the ranch style bungalow out to the concrete back patio.  She hadn’t been kidding, the pool was filthy.  In fact the whole back yard looked like the destroyed ending of a kegger in a teen sex comedy.  Trash littered the lawn, bottles and cans of all kinds littered the pool and most of the plastic beach loungers were toppled or stacked in sculptures only a drunk could see the logic in.  Two of the loungers had been righted to serve as pedestals for the two most beautiful bodies he had ever seen.  Miss Bikini was not alone, you see, she had a friend.  A friend that Tom would forever remember as “White Onepiece.”

White Onepiece raised her sunglasses as he and Bikini approached.

“Ohmygod it’s so good that you’re here,” her breasts heaved.  “We’ve been SO bad.”

“I can see that.”  Tom replied, tearing his eyes away to survey the pool.  “What happened here exactly?”

“We just had our 18th birthday,” said Miss Bikini.  “It totally rocked.”

“Both of you?”  Asked Tom, incredulous.

“Yeah, our birthdays are in the same week.  That’s probably why we’re such good friends.  We’re practically twins.”  Tom could see a certain resemblance in their tan skin and blond hair.  Not to mention their brand spanking new barely legal age.  Miss Bikini’s hair was a lighter blond, bleached probably, while White Onepiece was more of a highlighted honey blond.  This was good because he’d need some way to tell them apart once their clothing was off.

“Of course, now the house is totally trashed,”  Continued Bikini “And my parents are totally gonna kill me if we don’t get it cleaned by the time they get back tomorrow.”

“Oh, uh, would you like me to help you?”  He offered, standing to his white knight stance.

“Wul, duh.  You’re the pool boy.”

“Right,” He deflated a touch. “But, uh, with the rest of the house.”

“No, it’s cool.  The maid and the gardener will be here tomorrow morning.”  Bikini dismissed him by laying face down on her lounger and untying the strings of her top.

“Right.  Awesome.  Cool.  I’ll, just, uh, work on the pool then.”

Tom did his best to look sexy while he skimmed the pool but he wasn’t sure what it was exactly that men did to look sexy.  For women it was easy; just pick an asset and display it, usually by bending over in some direction, very slowly and just subtle enough that everyone involved could safely pretend that she didn’t know what she was doing was sexy.

But what did men do?  He wondered to himself.  Did they bend, too?  He tried, while skimming, to bend in such a way that his ass might be enticing.  But should he be displaying his ass?  What makes a guy ass hot to a girl?  Was there something else he should be sexy with?  His biceps weren’t exactly rippling and his shorts weren’t tight enough to show off his package.  It was hard to do his job while facing them and attempting to brood.  Maybe he should have read some romance novels or something so he’d know what women thought was hot.  He stuck with the bending as it was most conducive to doing his actual job.  Of course, it meant that he nearly fell into the pool when he overheard the girl’s conversation.

“I can’t believe I’m still so horny!”  Complained one of them.

“I know!”  Exclaimed the other.  “I mean last night was practically, like, an orgy and I’m still not satisfied.”

“It’s totally Tyler’s fault.  I mean, aren’t guys supposed to, like, rise to the occasion when they’re in a threesome?”

Oh God!  Tom almost dropped his pool skimmer.

“Seriously.  Only Tyler could have sex with two girls at once and not satisfy either of them.”

“I know!”  She sighed “We need a real man.”

As Tom eagerly spun around to volunteer, he lost his footing and actually did fall into the pool.

“Oh my god” Marveled White Onepiece between giggles “Are you ok?”  She left her lounger to crouch by him as Miss Bikini clutched her top to her breasts, racked by paroxysms of laughter.

“Yeah.  I’m, uh, I think I slipped on something.”

“Do you need help?”  Onepiece bent over to him, breasts dipping into the pool and causing Tom to nearly drown.

“No, I’m cool.”  Protested Tom, kicking back from the side of the pool.  “I’m cool.”

He swam to the ladder, pushing beer cans out of his way and hoping the cold would shrink his chub enough that it wouldn’t be quite so obvious through his drenched shorts.

“Come inside.”  Miss Binkini lead him to the bathroom, shoulders still jiggling with laughter, strings still swinging free.  “I’ll put your clothes in the dryer.”  She explained, leaving him to undress and handing him a towel.  As he took the towel he tried to hide the hope in his eyes as her top hung loose from the single arm pinning it to her nipples.  If only she would let that arm go, the porno could begin.  But she didn’t.  And she barely noticed when he took his shirt off.  She merely closed the door most of the way, holding her hand out through the small opening to receive his clothes.

The bathroom window was open while he showered and it faced directly onto the patio so he could still hear their conversation in bits and pieces.

“God, I’m so horny!”  Was the repeated refrain and then he heard the phrase he always dreamed of but never thought he’d hear.  It was too ludicrous, too absurd, there was no way a teenage girl would actually say to her friend,

“I found my mom’s vibrator.”

“Ew, no way!”

“Totally.  Do you want to see it?”

“Really?”

No!  Not really!  It wasn’t possible!  It certainly could NOT be this easy.  It really couldn’t.  But he heard them, giggling, enter the house.  About 10 minutes later they drifted past the bathroom and he heard Onepiece say

“Oh my god, we should NOT be doing this.”

“You’re gonna LOVE it.”  Assured Bikini.

Tom was frozen behind the bathroom door, hand on the knob, too flabbergasted to move.  What should he do?  Dear GOD what could he do?  He had chased this moment, hoped for it, prayed for it, begged for it, done everything but paid for it, to happen and now that this ridiculous opportunity had fallen into this increasingly angular lap, he had no idea how to proceed.

This was insane.  He was being ridiculous.  His imagination had run away with him.  Nothing was going on.  He would put this towel round his waist, walk back out to the patio, and there they would be doing nothing more pornographic than their mere existence always was.

He walked to the patio and found no one there.  He walked around the yard, searching for some sign of them.  The yard progressed around to the side of the house and as he walked past another open window he heard White Onepiece exclaim

“Oh my GOD!”

“Isn’t it amazing?”  Asked Bikini.

“I can’t believe you didn’t bring this out last night.”

“I guess I wanted it to be just for us.”

“You bad girl.” Chastised Onepiece.

It was true!  It was all true.  Tom’s towel could barely contain him as his heart leapt for joy.  But the window was too high, he couldn’t see anything.

“Mmmm” moaned Onepiece.  “Oh my god!”

But they had left the curtain open, they wanted him to see, why else would they be doing this while he was here, while he was naked, why else would they be so loud about it, so shameless?

He went back into the house, still debating what to do.  But when he walked inside and saw that they had left the door just slightly open his mind was made up.  If they didn’t want him to come in why didn’t they close the door?  They couldn’t leave it open all the way, of course, they couldn’t be slutty about it.  They had to be coy but there was no way they would leave the door even  the tiniest inch open if they didn’t want him to join in or at least watch.

He stood in front of the door for an extra moment, steeling his nerve and savoring the moment.

“Oh JESUS!”  One of them exclaimed.  “This is so fucking good!”

At that he tossed his towel to the side and opened the door, his erection brazenly leading the way into the room.

White Onepiece dropped her fork in shock.  Her lips were smeared with the shining streak of rich chocolate icing.

 

The girls were frozen for a moment in horror.  Miss Bikini was bent halfway over her plate of cake, mouth agape, arrested in the act of taking a bite.

Time stopped for a moment as all of Tom’s dreams crashed in a heap around his naked body.  There was a second in which he thought he might lose all consciousness or simply die on the spot.  But the second passed and he was still alive and still naked in a stranger’s house for no explainable reason.

He grabbed the towel and bolted for the door.  He did not care if the girls laughed or cried or called the police, he would not wait around to find out.

In a blind panic he grabbed his keys from the bathroom counter, stuck his wallet in his mouth and dove for his car.

As he drove away he dimly realized that they could still call the pool cleaning agency and have him fired.  Though he prayed that they would never know his name, he didn’t care about getting fired.  Fired or not he would never go back to that job.  This porno bullshit was a stupid idea anyway.  He was done with it.  It was ridiculous.  Tomorrow he would grow up, he would straighten out, he would become a real man.  He would figure out how to get laid the way other guys, real guys, figured out how to get laid.  Maybe he would take a class.  Maybe he would go to art school.  Maybe he’d become an actor.  Those guys got laid all the time.

The next day he enrolled in art school.  Because everyone knows that art students, and presumably artists as well, get to see tons of naked vagina.