Wednesday Workshop: The Adventure of Dangerous Words

Come along, oh come along on this journey with me, oh writer of prose, love and of life. I shall never judge the words you dream, because I know they come from your heart, singing true to the thoughts floating inside your head. Thoughts which come from years of experiences, wonder, and even dreams as unique to this world as you are yourself.

These words you make…are you.

I respect all of you, because these words are who you are.

They are your signature, your expression, and every once and a while – your accomplishment in this world as you stew and form another batch of linguistic construction with grammatical mortar piecing them all together in an published abode we call a book. We build books, but these books are born from dreams.

But why?

Why build? Why write? And why spend this time laboring and building, editing and hammering away at that board of keys, when life calls right outside that window? Life. With all its callings and remarkable things to be seen and places to go, with people to meet and experiences to be had, why do we write instead of live?

Because, adventure.

We explore these places inside our minds, and we have these experiences through the eyes of others, our characters. Our plots. Our words formed into the works are which our books. We live through our words, and our words live through us.

To us, that window life just waits behind is one in our minds.

We open it every day and breathe deeply in our explorations.

This is our world, a sometimes introspective one where that window inside our head is a place colored by our experiences and shaped by our hopes and dreams. Some of us are brave enough to put down our most shocking revelations, our most deep and inner secrets, and yet others work words which most anyone could read. We do not judge, because the freedom to express whatever we wish is the most basic of human rights, and in this creation of words lies the most basic form of communication and also the most powerful.

With all the world clamoring about this television series or that, the movie you must see, and the latest three dimensional whatever, our two dimensional words hold a power and strength uniquely all their own. Our ability to express far exceeds anything Hollywood could spend hundreds of millions of dollars and years to do, because they deal in the sensory experiences of the eyes and the ears, and our words go straight to the mind. They have to worry about visual effects, cameras, shots, location, weather, and finding that right actor and moment at which to speak a line – and we don’t.

It all just comes to us, and it all instantly is the exact way we want it.

Think of what a movie maker would pay to have this power, and it is almost god-like in its ability to create images and places lost to history or the things or people which will never be.

And all of this power sits outside that window, waiting for us to put one word next to another, like one foot in front of another, and then magically another adventure begins. An adventure of words not of steps, and we are off again on some wild journey of excitement and self-discovery, creating a journal all the while which serves as a record of our experiences.

Our book.

The one we work on, either from time to time or slavishly so in a flurry of passion and words, as we explore, put down thoughts, and record this strange, almost trance-like experience which we simply call, ‘writing a book.’

I’m writing a book.

But really, you are doing so much more.

You mind is out there in another time and place, and you are projecting yourself into a strange and wonderful place.

A place of dreams.

A world of imagination and complete freedom.

Where words can be spoken and thoughts recorded, characters molded like clay and their lives overturned and upended at our slightest whim. Our character’s secret, deepest, most innermost thoughts laid bare for the world to see. Their hopes and fears realized, love found or love lost, and we watch them with voyeuristic interest and a strange looking inside the fish-tank sense of curiosity.

What will happen next?

What will, I shall ask you, because this is up to you. It is up to you. There are two choices you need to make this day, and one of them is the most difficult and easiest at the same time. It is that decision every day you make to take a small amount of time each day to write, to open that window, and to explore a little through your words as you record that journey step by step, and word by word, in your book.

Taking that first step every day is the hardest thing you shall ever do, and yet it shall be one of the most rewarding. It is so easy not to write, just as it is so easy to sit inside all day and waste another day of our life, being glued to the negativity of the world or pointless distraction of other people’s thoughts. To watch other people’s adventures on television instead of living one ourselves, or creating one to share.

Watching television shall never outlive you, but your words shall.

Your words are probably the one thing you do in this life that will keep changing the world until the end of time.

Yet, we don’t. Another day goes by. Those thoughts stay locked up inside your head, silent forever. Your words take days, and then weeks off. You let the unending distractions of life define you. Day after day.

The guilt builds. Not writing becomes the reason not to write.

We end up fearing the adventure because of no good reason, nothing real, and nothing really based in any sense of reality and logic. We invent reasons “not to.”

We sit in silence.

We believe in the security of silence, when silence is possibly the most dangerous and hurtful known condition known to humankind. More suffering has been done in silence in this world than has ever been done in words or actions. But speak. Say something. You are getting it off your chest. You are making yourself heard. I can forgive misguided and hurtful words more than I can hurtful actions, even if these painful words are spoken out of rage or repressed anger. Venting is the first step of communicating, especially if these words and feelings have been bottled up a long, long time.

But we can’t live on hurtful words alone. Venting must result in positive and healing actions.

We can react to anger with more anger, or we can understand where it is coming from. But know one thing, even words expressed in rage are better than a punch thrown or a life changed by a stupid and pointless act of violence. Words, yes, can be used to incite, but we can also listen more deeply and hear the feelings beyond the anger. Don’t repeat the hateful and lazy memes of others, but try to express the hurt you are feeling. Know also that some are fooled into hurting, using one hurt to replace another, so expressing rage is a tricky thing if you don’t know what you are angry about in the first place.

But it is also my advice to those who feel they have been wronged by this world.

Write a book.

Let it loose on the page.

Vent and rage through words on the page. Say those things which you are afraid to say in person, or would casually throw out on social media – in a book. Make your dangerous adventure one of exploring your feelings. Of why you are so angry. Of what makes you hurt so much. Write your pain into a character and let that character deal with it, find a way out, or let that pain win and define this character’s life.

Reflect through a fictional character instead of react in real life.

You need to find a way to put those hurtful feelings into words, and believe me, it helps.

But the danger in these words is not primarily to others, it is to yourself and your feelings and beliefs. You may discover you were completely wrong about something, and believe me, that hurts even worse. But it is a good sort of hurting where we begin healing instead of letting that hatred fester in silence.

And maybe, just maybe, you will discover something else inside you. Something more than negativity and anger. Something you love. That promise of that something over the next hill – just outside your window. Maybe you will find yourself going there, after all that hatred is gone, you will find yourself open to explore again. You will find that inner peace, and you will find the wonderment of complete freedom.

To find that place inside yourself where you express your dreams without limits or repression.

Some fear finding themselves more than anything else in this world. Some fear complete freedom more than they do their comfortable and confined cave.

Dangerous words?


I Can Do It Better (A Cuckold Odyssey #2)

‘Because the ten percent of my life that’s about being a cuckold has great highs and great lows. When you watch Emma undressing in front of Mark for the first time, you will feel so much. You’ll be more turned on than ever before. You’ll also be jealous, angry, proud and protective—all at the same time. Every nerve in your body will be electrified. It won’t be comfortable but you’ll sure know you’re alive. Ten, aferwards, you’ll hate both of them for betraying you. But not as much as you’ll hate yourself for letting it happen. You’ll be disgusted, but you’ll still know you’re alive.’ I paused, remembering.

I shook myself out of it and continued, ‘Now, compare that with how most “normal” people feel. They spend the day at work and … it’s all right. It’s not great. It’s not terrible. It’s just what they do. When they’re not working, they watch TV, they go shopping, they have a beer. And … it’s all right. It’s what most of my life is like, too. But if Tina told me tomorrow she was going to stop cuckolding me, all my life would be just that—all right. I’m not sure I can go back to that.

I Can Do It Better (A Cuckold Odyssey #2)

Yes, a thousand times yes. I love it when a book goes all mental like that, from the point of view of a character (with a little insight from the writer), and we go deep down the rabbit hole inside someone’s head. And then it deeply and so succinctly get it about the subject of which we read, and we are enlightened a little bit about the why as well as the how come. We understand a little bit better. A door is opened in our mind. This is why we are so turned on by this. This is what it means to someone else.

Communication and connection.

Something so rare and impossible these days.

Our book today is a book two in a sexual odyssey of a cuckolding couple, this time meeting with another couple and living out the fantasies and hows and whys with the other two. I dropped right into this book like a comfortable chaise lounge, never getting lost, and never needing to read the book one – and that is the hallmark of a writer who knows how to pick up on a story while keeping a newcomer perfectly informed, and also very nice work.

Ben had been quiet up until now. He’d spent most of the time giving Boris scraps off his plate while Tina and Emma were talking. Now he leaned forward and said, ‘Can I be one of those typical men and ask you a detailed question?’

‘Sure,’ said Tina.

‘What are you doing differently with the guy you’re seeing …?’ He paused and looked at Tina. ‘Are you happy to talk about these things? I mean, it’s personal stuff.’

Tina spread her hands. ‘Hey, we’re all friends here.’

Apart from a few chats on a website, we’d known them for a little over an hour. I wasn’t sure we were best buds yet.

‘We can agree that nothing leaves this room,’ said Tina.

Cuckolding over tea and sandwiches. I love the tête–à–tête between friends here, the little observations, the little asides, the things which shouldn’t be said in casual conversation yet they are, and the peering into a world we shouldn’t be in the conversations between these two couples. Why they participate in this sordid and forbidden world. What turns them on. The encounters they had, and shall soon have.

The secrets and mysterious hook ups.

Who they love, and who they just use. And why.

It gives an insight and reflection of love, what it means, and contrasts that with a more primal world of sex and gratification that exists like an amusement park to these women. Some men were just built to be ridden like a roller-coaster, and that is what they are used for. Other men are for love, and the test of love is for the men to accept a woman’s needs, both sides of her needs, the primal and the snuggle.

It is a reflection of something more basic and brutal about who we are as humans, the images we place upon genders, and the deeper notion of who we are. Are we more than animals? Yes. Are we that far from them?

I don’t know.

Everything we say says yes, the pedestals and shrouds we place upon women, the puritanical and holy light we shine upon them, and yet all of it is a fabrication and a lie at the same time.

It is what we want to believe versus what we know.

It echoes back to that more primitive time. It tells us not much has changed. It shines a light on all of our make-believe pretenses and rules of this modern age, and then our presumptions of how the modern world works scurry off into the darkness like cockroaches.

The book delves further with a story, a marriage, and two women chasing the same man. Other men enter the picture. The plot goes deeper into these tangled webs, yet still manages to be accessible and readable all the same. I lost myself in this one, lost all track of time, and I sat transfixed upon the spiral and elegant arcs of character and plot here. The sordid details. The matrimony. The tangled web of truth and love.

There were moments I wished for a more focused and cohesive main thread, and a time where a moment I wished I could watch first-hand was recounted in a rather lengthy letter. These were minor things though, just passing thoughts in my journey through this book. For the majority of this work, I was lost upon it, and it held my attention tightly.

Recommended strongly for those wishing to dive deep into the hows and whys of cuckolding, and this one takes a slower path with an interesting tale along the way. Two couples meet, and their lives are changed, heartbreaks are had but not felt, but the essential and basic feelings of love and personal worship keep them on a steady path through the storms of bringing another, not a lover, but a performer, into a bed shared between two souls who care for one another to an extent far beyond the normal perceptions of pleasure.

Nicely done.

Wednesday Workshop: Polished Into Obscurity

You can over-work something, removing that essential air of freshness and wide-eyed innocence. I appreciate that at times in a work, a sort of fresh-cut salad feeling to the words, where everything is not overwrought and laboriously went over until every word is factory-perfect and sterile. I appreciate the craft and fine-tuning part, but there are times when I desire that first read, that first impression, and that first insight is the one where the words are the truest and the patent observations the most powerful.

And the revision and editing process begins, and we often focus on grammar, sound, and completeness – with little or no thought given to preserving that fresh and snappy take on a situation or subject.

Say you throw out a perfect one-liner description of a character, such as, “She was a raven-haired and red-suited newswoman who seemed more concerned with her vampish looks than the truth.”

Perfect, fine, leave it there. I get the picture and many of you will as well. It plays on our experience of watching overly-manicured newswomen and it is a great line.

But no, the revision process comes up, and in our tired and dogged ways after reviewing the previous 5,000 words that night with tired coffee cup in hand we hit this point. We can no longer see the wit, brevity, and freshness of the original observation. Some jaded voice inside our head says, “Description too brief. Please fluff out.”

And there the ruining-it process begins.

We go a thousand words on her looks, feeling it important to talk about her journalism degree, the clack of her heels, the shimmer of her hair, the curve of her breasts, and all sorts of possibly well-written description that I am sure somebody will appreciate. It is all insanely great and builds character, but we go from the crisp snap of celery in a salad to the soft and mushy celery in a soup. We lose the brevity, and we lose the fresh snap of wit.

We over explain.

We lose the crispness and sudden insightful takes of our first thoughts.

We write our wit and personality right out of our work.

The more you explain it, the more I don’t understand it.

-Mark Twain

Imagine if Mark Twain over-edited his work. He took out the style, made it pedestrian and advertiser-friendly, and shoved his words through the bland-izer and fluff-machine so many times you couldn’t tell the difference between them and anything else some copy-writing hack would get paid by the word for on some click-bait tell-you-what-you-already-know site listing the top ten whatevers of all time. He loses himself in trying to sound like everyone else. The wit is written right out, and the words which were uniquely his are now the pap and filler of every-speak.

Great words come from sudden and fresh insights. They reflect our wit and personality. Failing that, great words are crafted through the natural process of reduction. There will be moments when you sold something short and need to fluff word count to get an idea across, but never forget you can also make something great by simplifying.

The short and sweet? The sudden and remarkable moment where words create the familiar pang of recognition, and then insightful stroke of art?

Lost if you overdo it.

Get the knife and cut the fat. Highlight a paragraph, and find a way to say that in one sentence. Your reader’s time is precious, and people are so distracted nowadays that wasting their time chewing the gristle of our lazy and overcooked words makes you their enemy.

It is heresy to say brevity is an ideal nowadays, with book selling sites paying us by the word and elevating word count as a measure of our self-worth as writers. I would rather read five-hundred great words than five-thousand poorly thought-through ones, and often what is trying to be said in the longer version is just a stumbled-through and long-winded version of the shorter work.

If you over explain and over write, it often sounds like you have no idea what you are talking about.

Don’t make the mistake of over-editing yourself into mediocrity.

The Pool Boy Took My Wife (Hotwife Erotica)

The Pool Boy Took My Wife (Hotwife Erotica)

“Hi, I’m Brad,” he said, the slight smell of coconut tanning oil and the slick sheen of his body making me hear none of the words, “and I will be your pool boy today.”

“That will be perfect,” I said, letting him in the back gate of my house to the backyard of my house. Of course, a girl can dream, and my pool was one of those reflecting types with a hidden edge and letting the reflection of the city skyline and mountains beyond paint a stunning picture of liquid bliss upon the world. My place was up in the hills, and the pool was laid out so nothing blocked the view yet the backyard was still completely private from prying eyes.

Perfect for what I had in mind.

Most of the time.

He stepped by me, carrying all sorts of gear, nets, extended hoses, and other plastic containers of what I was sure were testing kits and other chemicals for the water. Of course, I was paying him to do that job, and I was sure he knew how to use his tools as well as I would know how to use his other, more primal toolage.

I stepped back, leading the way as I gestured towards the water, my white-and blue striped bikini clinging to my body even though I would like it pushed off my breasts and my briefs stretched between my thighs as I showed him every secret I held dear. Suntanned skin, slick with oil, perfect in its tone and the flesh underneath, muscles hard, my taut stomach with the 24 Hour Fitness abs finely sculpted and begging to wrap a male intrusion with the power of my womanhood.

To let him take me.

To watch as his face was twisted into a mask of Neanderthal lust as he came.

To pull back on him with every ounce of my womanhood, wrapping him tightly, and never letting him go.

Until we both release in that moment we know nothing more can be spent between us.

But getting to that point may take hours.

Or it may take all night.

“Come in,” I smiled, “this is all yours.”

I stepped towards my lounge, donning my sun hat and oversized sunglasses, looking perfectly fuckable as I stayed hidden behind my sexy and pouty look. He bent over to check the drain and the firm outline of the man’s rock hard glutes under his short burned into my mind and set my juices flowing.

“Hey you guys,” Darthaniel emerged from the patio door like the unwelcome house pest he could sometimes be, “I just got back from the store with stuff to barbecue. Got burgers in the truck and a whole shitload of bags. Hey Sylvie, come help me out and put stuff away.”



Fuck his timing.

“Darthaniel,” I said, “I am going to fucking kill you for ruining this.”

“You already killed me once last Wednesday.” He offered an open bag of potato chips to me. “Barbecue chip?”

I took one and ate it in his face as mean as I could because one, I was pissed at him, and two I can’t fucking resist those things.

Minutes later I was hauling shit in from Darthaniel’s SUV, way too many groceries for a casual outing with way too much prep-time needed. Yes, I wanted macaroni salad, but to buy seventeen different ingredients meant an afternoon of washing and chopping just to get to a point where it could all be put together. I worked in the kitchen and waved to Brad every once and a while outside the windows.

Slow, painful, I wish I could be fucking you waves.

“Book review?” Darthaniel said from the center island, preparing the hamburgers. “I got my meat in my hands, so let it rip.”

“I hate you,” I said, eating a piece of fresh-washed celery, “you knew I was setting this up and you came by to fuck it up. Maybe no, no review today. Maybe I will just link to the book and say, fuck it.”

“Oh come on,” he said as he seasoned the fresh ground sirloin into patties and slapped them down onto the wax paper, “throw me a bone here. I seen the cover of that, wow, looks hot.”

“Well yes,” I said, “probably the highlight of the book. This feels like an early effort and the text quality isn’t all that terribly flowery and expressive, so I have to give it a little room. It feels like it struggles a little in expressiveness, we get ‘telling’ lines like, ‘her perfect body glistened in the sun’ and I found myself wanting more. How was it perfect? What features did he see as perfection? Was it her eyes, her tits, you know, what a man says he sees in a woman can reflect more on the man’s desires than what he sees with his eyes. That sort of thing.”

I threw the chopped celery in the salad bowl. “An ass man is a lot different than a tit man.”

“So no recommend?” he said as he finished up the burgers, washed his hands, and moved on to the buns.

“I can’t say that,” I said while I checked the pasta, “because it would be selling it short. At times like this I take a mulligan on text quality and focus on the fantasy. The sex here was a bit brief and quick, but I admit there are times when people take a hold of the whole cuckold fantasy and write their passions about it. I have to admit, with cuckolding, again, every man is different. Every woman is too, but that’s not really the point here. There are those who like the psychological part, some who are more focused on the act and imagery, and others who focus in on some very tight part of the experience – almost like a fetish.”

“So what was it here?” he said as he arranged the buns. “You want these toasted?”

“I am good, but yes, if it’s not too much hassle,” I said as I nibbled on a shell. “Pasta is done, draining.” I drained the pot full of shells and rinsed them under cold water as I worked through the billows of steam. “The sexy talk here, and the acts were the stars of the show. I have to admit our writer knew how to hide certain things, like him listening to her giggle in another room while our cuckold husband knew nothing about what was going on – and then our writer just dropped it. She didn’t explain what went on, talk to the readers through the characters saying ‘we had a lot of fun while you weren’t looking’ or any other sort of feeling of ‘I must explain it’ – which I felt was a very strong point. I love self-control like this, and if I were to suggest improvements it would be more of this, plus more showing and not telling.

An editoress would help greatly as well, plus slowing a down a bit to enjoy things. You know, not rushing in, and savoring the every delicious moment. The slow, savory patience of expectation. Like the readers of this review, by now they are probably chomping at the bit for me to get fucked yet all I have been doing was cooking dinner.”

Brad stretched outside the window and took off his shirt. I licked a spoon clean as my thoughts went to the elsewhere beneath his shorts.

I finished the salad and popped the cover on the bowl. “It takes practice to know when to play with a reader, and then to know when to deliver. You can twaddle too long in your slice-of-life-isms and lower the heat. At a certain point you can tease too much as well, and it loses impact. Readers can get sick of waiting.”

Darthaniel smiled like he had gotten what he wanted out of me. “Want me to go?”

He was being diplomatic now, but falsely so since he knew I had just busted my ass on the salad and we had a kitchen full of great food waiting to be cooked.

I smiled.  “Let’s see if Brad wants to stay over and have dinner with us. Then you can go, after dinner.”

I stared out the window at the pool boy. “He can help me clean up.”

Wednesday Workshop: Yes, Peace at Any Cost

“Well,” Darthaniel’s skeleton said, “this is nothing like Fallout 4. This sucks.”

“They wanted this war,” my skeleton said, sitting in the post-apocalyptic wastelands of the world, “I mean, if your political party wants the war, it’s totally okay, I guess. Wow, do I really miss moving around.”

“Fuck you I miss sleeping,” his skeleton said.

All we could do is sit there, frozen for the rest of time as we watched the same destroyed landscape, day after day, in a hell not of our own design but definitely paid for by our tax dollars. The world? Destroyed by ignorance, like we all thought it would be. Anybody left alive? A lost hope, for when the entire world turns into Fukashima it’s either just suffer until you die or just suffer and die.

“Remember peace protests?” I said, “and what bullshit they were? Those big ones like the ones leading up to the Iraq war? We never even had one before this. And we all saw this coming. You think a peace movement would be something that would have stuck around to protest all wars. What a novel idea, you know? No more war, and that covers any war any side would want. Seriously, fuck those people.”

“Remember race?” Darthaniel said. “Now I can’t even tell, because we are all skeletons. I suppose that’s a good thing.”

“Remember politics?” I said.

“Fuck you I don’t want to remember politics,” he said. “Like I don’t want to remember Facebook. Let me troll you, remember the media?”

“Oh fuck off,” my skeleton said, “principled warriors of the truth and guardians of democracy? Hah, honestly, what a joke. When everyone stopped paying attention to them they all became this twisted corporate mouthpiece meant to sell you prescription drugs during the ad breaks. The top story would literally be a Youtube video you seen at work the day before, or something trending on Facebook you already knew about. It was literally a place for social media dropouts and people without the Internet to get their information.”

My skeleton sighed. “The only difference between news channels was the political party of your choice, but then again, we are not bringing up politics again. Being dead hurts, but remembering the media hurts worse.”

“I miss scratching my balls,” he said.

“Like I miss writing books nobody reads,” I said. “I miss writing books so people could download them for free. Wait, I don’t miss that. Fuck that.”

“I miss people thinking a Facebook rant would change the world,” he said. “People would get on their and pile on, boast about their posts, and then walk away feeling they did something real.”

“Huh,” I said, “probably what led us to this point. I blame Millennials. Too busy with Pokemon Go and whatever social media platform was hot that day, there were literally so many of them like Tinder and Photobucket. Someone would walk up to me at work and ask me if I was on some invented name, like Blubr or FakeDate, and I would have to go download and sign up for the app. Even if I never opened it again I was on there, and I guess, a somebody.”

“I would collect social media apps just to stay relevant,” he said, “by my fortieth my cell phone battery would last like, 45 minutes on a full charge. Remember cell phones?”

“Remember the time before cell phones?” I said. “When you could actually miss a call? Or you had to be at home to get them?”

“I don’t get calls anymore,” he said. “I kind of miss that, you know. Even if it was just one of those credit card scams trying to lower your interest rates I would kind of appreciate the social interaction.”

“My phone burst into flames way before the end of the world,” I said, “so I have no idea what you are talking about. I couldn’t even get a refund on the damn thing, and after that, and then they just wanted to sell me another phone.”

“Maybe it wasn’t nuclear war and everybody’s phone just went up at once,” he said.

“You’re funnier when you are dead,” I said.

“You’re a better writer when you are,” he said, and I could just imagine his bony grin.

“Remember when,” I said, “we had actual hope for the future? They sold us that so hard, like what we did mattered. Like our choices really mattered, even if were on some liberal cause like saving polar bears.”

“Polar bears gonna be pissed now,” he said, “whole fucking world is global warming with all these nukes that went off. Probably walking down here now to piss on our bones and say I told you so.”

“Or laugh at us,” I said, “and how stupid we were to believe all the lies and bullshit, and to give up on our beliefs. You know, that we could come together and stop a war, or organize and bring about real positive change in the world. You know, the whole slogan of ‘make the world a better place’ that every politician and corporation co-opted as their message, even though it wasn’t true. It was a whole lot easier to get out on Facebook and shit-post for a candidate than it was to go out into the real world and protest for something you believed in.”

“We were sold hope like we were sold Coke,” Darthaniel said. “Though I miss Coke more. Well, look at it this way, I don’t have to go to work, and you don’t have to pay taxes. Isn’t this a better world now?”

I sighed. “I miss the old world. I miss trying to change it, even if is was a stupid dream. I miss believing in a cause, and fighting for a greater good, like peace in the world for all peoples. You know, something greater than myself or my life on social media.”

“If only I could go back in time and say something to make none of this happen.”

Hawaiian Treat (Futa on the Beach 1)

The blue waters lapped at the beach. Women in bathing suits abounded. There were so many different styles: two pieces, one pieces, monokinis, string bikinis, and more. All the women were beautiful. Different races, different body styles, different sized breasts and curvy asses. I licked my lips…

Hawaiian Treat

Today we head to the islands of paradise with a futanari sampling the island’s delights. This book is a part of a series, so me jumping into the middle wasn’t exactly smart, but I should have been able to pick things up – and I did, to an extent. I wanted just a little more summary before we began, a little paragraph of who this was and her looks, background, and some of that other critical data I needed to paint a picture. We had some history, to be fair, but not so much on the visuals which is what I wanted. Yes, jumping in is probably my problem, but even if a reader does jump in I need some of the basics on visuals to get me started.

The book starts with a bang with sex, interludes with a visit to the beach, and then ends with sex. It is a shorter book, a part of a series, and the one thing I wished for was a little slower burn before the fun began. Our futanari has a magic seduction power, and I felt the second scene was much better done since we got to enjoy the seduction more before the fun began. The first was a ‘jump in’ type of scene, and I would have loved for there to be a little more tease and ‘should I?’ before the new gal joined in.

The sex was fun, and I felt it was a little more on the porn-y side than the romance side, with lots of ‘oh you are doing this to me’ sort of statements that I felt were more for the reader than for the characters. It was sort of like that talk you get in porn movies where the actress says, ‘oh yeah, please put that big thing in me’ sort of talk that is nasty, but you get a sneaking suspicion it is more for the viewers at home than the characters in the scene. I like nasty talk, and some of this hit the button for me, but I felt some of the talk could have been replaced by action and things would have felt more balanced, at least in my tastes.

Nasty talk is always tough since too much and it slides towards trite, and too little and the characters are silent. Plus I like nasty talk, but in small, very intense doses where the reader gasps at what was just said.

And the moment has to be right.

Visuals! I wanted more visuals here, as if you are in paradise, I want the sway of the palm trees, the rustle of the wind, the hot, sticky air, the endless blue expanse of ocean, and the relaxed, tropical feel of the warm sand beaches. I want the small, quint plazas pained up in pastels, the island ambiance, and the grass umbrellas over the wooden tables by the pool. A huge part of travel-rotica is the escape, and if you are in a beautiful place, not giving us a little taste is a sin. I wanted more visuals overall, but by the end with the seduction scene on the beach we had some very nice visuals, with the bikini and the seduction, that made the beginning of the book feel a little wanting for a little more detail, just in my feeling.

The futanari were nicely done here, and I loved the surprise reveals and then the nonstop sex afterwards with each new conquest. I would have loved for this to slow down and savor each new mate, and to have some more talk and back-and-forth between them. As it is, the romps were fun and energetic, and I dare say I wanted each scene to be a little bit longer and a little bit more nasty. This is probably me liking what I seen and wanting more.

I have a soft spot for the harder parts of futanari, to be sure.

Overall, not really erotic romance, but a sexy sex book filled with some good fantasy-worthy futanari sex that will entertain and give you some seeds in which to plant your own fantasies. The sex is the star of the show, and I found myself wanting to go back and sample some of the earlier books to get a better understanding of the characters and situation. Not really for seasoned readers of prose though, this is more ‘just sex’ and it delivers that in a basic, yet still fun way. I enjoyed this.

Wednesday Workshop: The Certain Silence of the Peaceful Mind

The words will come when you settle in. You just need to give yourself time.

I take time away, because there are other things in my which call to me in this moment. Other callings. Other things I wish to do at this moment in my life. It is our right and one should never feel bad for chasing the things which we love.

You must answer your callings.

I will be back to the written word, time and the moment will call me back, and I feel no regret.

You need to let go of regret.

Words do come naturally to me, but so does so much else. I need to feel I have time to explore my dreams and chase that rainbow, if only for a moment, if only for a season or two. Time is always our enemy, robbing us of potential and drifting away in lost moments to never be seen again, like a toy floating away on the waves.

So I am out here, exploring the unknown which I love.

And I am well.

Once you free yourself from distractions so much more is possible. Once you free yourself from the daily dosage of negativity fed to you by others you find happiness and creativity. You can discover again, if it is only just yourself. Certainty of mind is peace of mind, and getting rid of needless things in your life is the key to freedom. The less distractions you have, the better off you are.

I hear more now. I see more. I enjoy more. I still have worries, but those get compartmentalized away for when I want to deal with them. I put procrastination away in a box, and do the things in which I am expected as soon as I can get to them. Don’t dread the things in which you do, just do them. Get them over with.

And then live for yourself.

Truly live.

You may see storms coming. You may be upset because others tell you to be. This is the last time we can change things for the better. Everyone is selling the end of the world, haven’t you heard, it is a certain thing now. It seems the only way they can get people to listen to them is declare such nonsense. What will happen when people tire of the dire warnings of armageddon?

Likely nothing.

The next armageddon will come along, be proclaimed as even more dire than the last one, and life will go on.

Nothing will happen tomorrow.

Only the message will change, for goals and aims which we shall truly never know.

I will vote, my mind is made up, and that will be the end of that. Until then, I don’t have to listen to any of you.

I freed myself from your nonsense.

Like I freed myself from so much other nonsense in my life. Worry, doubt, fears, just a bundle of needless and worthless emotion. Self-inflicted wounds. Things I do to punish myself because I enjoy the things I love. Born of guilt really, telling yourself you do not deserve to have something for yourself every once and a while, and then you find something else to worry about to take your mind away from really enjoying that thing you love.

People are all too willing to provide this negativity. These doubts. These fears. They will happily supply you with all the self-loathing you can handle, and care not a whit about the enjoyment you let blow away to the winds of time.

Don’t let these people in.

Don’t let others be the measure of happiness for the things you love.

Never feel guilty.

These are your dreams, and you should never feel guilty for dreaming them, or chasing them.

You could be doing other things, you could be writing, you could be carving a new face into Mount Rushmore, but if you are doing none of that and enjoying your life, you should never feel a pang of guilt.

You will get back to those other things in time.

For now, you have dreams to catch.

Go, catch them.

The World of Cherry

“You don’t know? Winterlynn, didn’t you ask the person you auditioned for?” Winterlynn turns away from Devon, zipping up the bag. “She said it was fully nude.” Devon bursts out with a shocked laugh, “Fully nude? You’re kidding me? Why didn’t you just say that then? Are you cool with that type of dancing?”

“I’ve done it before, just not like this,” Winterlynn admits. Devon pulls her close, teasing her with hip bumps and slaps on her round booty. “You have? My roomie has so many secrets. And I thought we knew everything about each other. You’re going to show it all off, every bit of your fine ass body to strangers at some club? Wow, didn’t know you were that girl.” Winterlynn faces the statuesque model. “I’m not. I’m a dancer desperate for work. At least I can pay my half of the rent this month.”

Devon retreats, not liking her tone, saying, “I told you I would cover it. I make enough to pay the full amount.” Winterlynn gives her a warm hug. “I know, and thank you, but I don’t feel right about you doing that. We’re not…”

“What?” Devon hugs her warmly.

“We’re not girlfriends or lovers.”“We could be…”

The World of Cherry

Like sexual clockwork this week’s story gets me caught in its gears, ticks another beat, and explodes all over the page like wanton lesbian lust. Really, I never thought about having to put my Kindle in a waterproof plastic bag to read a book, but this one does it for me. What gets me so worked up? Patience, let’s lightly dust the surface of this chocolate cake of a book with powdered sugar before I reveal.

We have here a woman who runs a secret, discreet, high-end lesbian sex club. Her employees and entertainers are the focus of this book, and we get to peek in on the events of and surrounding a lipstick-smeared and sex-covered night of debauchery, dashing in and out of different character’s lives for a glimpse into moments we should have never been able to see, but through the magic of erotic fiction, we can.

Part of this book relies on intimacy, and to achieve that we have to switch point-of-views quite drastically. There are a lot of stories being told here, and while I was able to follow along, there were times I felt a little lost when another character jumped into the scene and I had to readjust and re-read. This brings up two questions:

Would this book have been stronger with just one or two PoVs? I could have read the entire book just from the head-mistress’ point-of-view and been satisfied, but we would have lost the intimate vignettes and encounters between the performers and attendees of the club – which would have been a huge voyeuristic loss. Otherwise, we would possibly need to place our luscious owner of the night’s festivities into each situation, which would have felt forced and removed the sudden yet gripping intimacy of each encounter. For this type of a book, I don’t see any way around the problem, so in fact, the PoV jumps were a small inconvenience, but one I felt was needed to maintain the closeness and special nature of each encounter.

So in short, I feel the PoV switches are essential for this sort of a book, even if that runs against common fiction wisdom a little. In a way, they are like when we ‘drop in’ on two actresses in an erotic movie scene, we are the voyeur, and to force one constant PoV through the story would be unrealistic, and also ruin that sense of unique intimacy each scene requires.

So let’s jump back into this secret candy shop, and the candy shop is a great analogy here because it speaks to another issue which was handled deftly. One would think, with all the femme sex going around, that after a couple chapter we would begin to tire of the wet-fingered proceedings. Not so, as there is a balance and variety kept that keeps the reader off her painted toes, and we deliciously dive into the sex-stained world of escort office politics, and I found these little tidbits to be amazing in their detail and authenticity.

She’s too good at hiding her feelings.

This one makes little snarky comments about being the boss’ only pet.

She broke the rules by bringing a friend to work.

That one has a brash attitude and calls her co-workers whores, is that in fun or is there another issue hiding there?

She is jealous of the new girl.

You don’t get this stuff in many erotic books, and this adds the powdered sugar and fresh strawberries to the frosting of what was already a very delicious treat. When I was settled in thinking this was just a hook-up book, we are treated to all sorts of camaraderie, bitchiness, in the trenches together friendships, and a business-like attitude that people will come and go in this line of work (and don’t fret it) that smacks me as an honest and frank assessment of this line of work.

You can idolize the candy shop, or you can be honest about it while still recognizing the glamour. This book chooses to be honest about it while still acknowledging, hey, this is a candy shop and it still is a treat to work here.


If you learn one thing, it is that.

You may have a dream to work in some place or industry, but there is a level of seriousness and maturity that you need to possess when working there. It is in short, respect for what the service the establishment is trying to provide. Every day won’t be a great one, you will put up with a lot of behind the scenes shit, but there are moments where you have to be bigger than your human-ego frailties and be a better person to make the candy shop work. There is a level of putting yourself above the day-to-day and bullshit you need to possess, to be bigger than your feelings and ego, and to put all your personal crap behind you to stand up and deliver for your place of work. You also admit you probably won’t last forever, and the place will run without you – but this is how the world works.

You give up a lot to work at the candy shop, but you do so out of love and respect for the dream.

Some people are like that, and those  people that can sacrifice one day and smile the next day are your gold stars.

They make the place work.

This book lays out these little interpersonal relationships so damn well in an environment so full of emotions and sex-charged workplace tit-for-tats (and tatted tits) that it floored me with its honest intensity and observations.

The sex? I know, finally I am getting to it. Written with experience and an eye towards the deliciously nasty and sex-soaked side of lips-on-clit debauchery. We don’t always dive straight into the final, lips-on-hips act either, some characters hold off, others tease, and the sex isn’t all the same every time. The acts burn with an intensity and passion that I have rarely seen in a long time, they come on like a rush, soak us in their sex, top it off with nasty talk, and leave us in a sweat heap afterwards to cuddle and whisper sweet nastiness in each others’ ears.

Rarely have I seen sex this sudden and this nasty, and it takes some real skill to do this dive-in sort of writing while still delivering a scene which by the end feels like it was led up to by a couple of thousand words that don’t actually exist. You feel a lot more was there than actually is, and that takes a great deal of skill as a writer to deliver that much during a sex scene. We get little bits of information along the way, little reactions, and all the while we are building towards the wet storm of passion we know will crash down upon our pages and moisten our loins with dewy precipitation.

And there is this ‘seducing the ice queen’ subplot which shall be the focus of my fantasies for a couple nights this week that shall keep my bedtime cardio elevated, and my fingers quite occupied before I drift off to the sweet bliss of Wonderland.

Strong recommend.

One of the best lesbian sex books I have read this year.

Wednesday Workshop: Tribes, Doubts, and Traps

Don’t walk into traps.

It sounds like sound advice, but we often just walk into them willingly or without knowing better. Here’s a hateful post, let’s call it out or pile on. Here’s a negative way of looking at the book market, calling it hopeless. Here’s to telling ourselves our writing will never get any better or anyone will even care or notice. Here’s to thinking we have to write in one genre, or there aren’t incredible opportunities elsewhere.

They are traps because this is you, or someone else, telling you how to think. It’s like a magical unreasonable godmother shows up and gives you a list of reasons to down on yourself, quit, or take a view of something that is one way of thinking straight to defeatsville.

Part of this is the culture nowadays. We live in a strange time, between a media-driven world and one driven by online tribalism. We used to be told what to watch and what to think by the media, now our opinions are being mostly formed by groups or ‘tribes’ online. We join a tribe for some particular belief, or form one ourselves, and we help spread the word. We may join multiple tribes for multiple causes, and we wrap ourselves in a particular way of looking at the world.

I was struck by last Monday’s presidential debate, and I went to sites on both sides. I don’t want to get today’s politics into this, but a larger trend fascinated me.

Both sides said they won.

How could that be? There is always a measure of ‘we won this’ hype on both sides, but regardless of what you believe or who you support, step back and take a look at what is happening. People see what they want to believe. The opinion is formed before the event, and the tribe’s view of the outcome is predisposed. Yes, we all like to think we are rationale, reasonable people and events shape our beliefs; but in a larger sense we often go into a new experience with a predisposed notion of the outcome.

Politics over (because, um, obvious), as I just wanted to use this as an example of how this tribal view happens. It is so hard to step out of one side or the other and see this happening, as emotions get in the way of reason and logic.

It is very rare something totally unexpected happens and we are taken by surprise and we change our views as a result.

Tribes spread views, and you could have one member say ‘the book market sucks’ and you (or a subset of the tribe) takes that as a truth. We tend to pick and choose the facts we use to make beliefs with that conform to the beliefs we already have. Well yes, of course, this is simple logic right? I am describing how rain is made or how a sunset works. Simple cause and effect is simple. What does it matter?

It matters when you talk yourself out of trying. It matters when you talk yourself out of success. A lot of life depends on being the last person left trying and working on the things you love – long after normal people wold have quit. There are always those stories of the entrepreneur or artist trying and failing for years when everyone around them telling them what they were called to do was hopeless and pointless – and then all of a sudden, success.


What that person knew all along and tried in vain for years is finally proven to be something people wanted.

You need to set yourself up in that mode of thinking. You need to see yourself as a reclusive genius working on your next masterpiece, and the world just doesn’t get you. Not yet. If people don’t respond, it is just a matter of getting the word out. It’s never your work. It is just a communication problem. What you do is unique, powerful, and special. Skill matters, message matters, but stamina and staying power matters more.

Without the will and energy to take that next step, you never will.

Talking yourself out of your future is probably the number one danger to the success waiting for you. You need to get there, so don’t turn around or talk yourself out of the trip. If the trip sucks, don’t assume the next one will.

You need to keep trying.

You also need to have a layer of bullshit protection, and also be a little careful about what you hear in tribes. You come first, and your dream is valid and more important than everything else in the world that may be going on, distracting you, or possibly upsetting you. What happens every day really doesn’t last or matter, but the things you believe in and love will last.

Don’t let the everyday get in the way of your future.

Stay the course and believe.

Nina’s Lust: Book 9 of “Bikini Babes’ Carwash”

Nina’s Lust: Book 9 of “Bikini Babes’ Carwash”

Foamy suds covered my car’s windows, putting me in a sudsy fantasy land of white bubbles.

That is, until the neon-green bikini-covered breast pressed through the suds and mushed flat against my windshield. The suds crept around her massive mammary, the skin slippery against the glass, and the green fabric wet and threatening to pull off her body.

“Fuck yes,” I said, my head lost in a near-orgasmic haze as I bit my wet, red lip. I had one hand on the wheel, and my other hand hidden under a jacket on my lap, the jacket that concealed a hiked up skirt and black lace panties down around my knees. Needless to say, my other hand was the more busy one at the moment. “Scrub my fucking car you hot little bitch.”

“Excuse me?” Darthaniel’s voice came over the speaker of my phone, amplified through the car’s Bluetooth system to the speakers.

“Oh hey Darthaniel,” I said, “just at the car wash. I asked them to wash the grille.”

“Yeah,” he said, and I could almost hear his smile, “that’s what I heard. What do we have this week?”

“Car wash book,” I said, sliding forward in the seat to get a better grip under me, and I sighed at the sensation of my hand fully covering my skin. My panties pulled tighter around my knees as I forced them father apart. A set of pink-bikini covered breasts slid against the opposite side window and I let out a long, steamy sigh as I watched them slide all the way up the glass, pressing flat, round, and firm.

What I wouldn’t do to lick the fucking glass.

“Yeah?” Darthaniel said, expectantly like I was leaving him hanging. “So how was it?”

“Not what I expected,” I said, “before chapter one got over with I learned about how they put the entire car wash together, a bag of stolen money, a full-body massage parlor, an old unsolved crime, a near drowning, the city council being bitches about their business license, a miscarriage, and a broken vibrator. Then again, this is a book nine of a series, but still that getting started text was a bit thick.”

I slowed my hand’s pace to keep myself on the edge and talk with him, plus the girls had moved to the back of the car so the show wasn’t in clear view. Still, at this rate I would be steaming up the windows before I got to the full car vacuums. Thank God for the cherry car freshener they gave me since it would cover up the smell of pussy in here.

“Sounds like a lot of getting started text,” he said, “did it ever get going in a good way?”

“This was more a romance book,” I said, daring to expose a little more of my bare upper legs out from under my jacket as I shifted in the seat and continued to work myself. Part of me wanted one of the cute gals outside to see me and what I was doing in here, but another part of me felt a deep but intoxicating shame. “Really, once I realized this entire book was more like a copy of a soap opera digest I began to enjoy it. There is a she likes him, he slept with her, they did this, she had that problem with her, and what is this other girl going to do once she realizes she has bigger dreams to follow. The sex was brief and a bit short at best, and I wanted to see more of that bonding and lust going on.”

“Wait a minute,” he said, his voice filling the car over the speakers. I had the bass on my system turned up, so the rattle of his voice permeated me in a deep, but satisfying way. I thrust a finger deeper and nearly rolled my eyes back into my head, letting out a long, wet sigh. “This sounds like a crazy book Sylvie, really. Where is the thrill? You know, that sort of forbidden and nasty thing that would happen at a car wash filled with hot, wet, scantily clad babes? You know, things like sexily playing with a hose, two girls kissing each other, and one reaching under her bikini bottom while a horny customer watches through the glass.”

That did it.

“Oh my God,” I said as the nasty images bounced around in my mind, and my hand went into overdrive. I felt myself panting uncontrollably as I worked myself faster towards the end. “Oh God, yes.”

“Excuse me?” Darthaniel said over the phone.

“I said, oh my God…you are so right.” I felt my insides melting away as my haze turned towards that moment where one walks dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. It was coming and I knew it. Once wrong word or touch would set me off. “At times this read more like a case study you would read in business class, and the others it felt like a soap opera. It did have a lot of characters bouncing around in there, and at times it felt a little much to keep track of them. Did I enjoy it? Yes, as a sort of soap opera sort of relationship book where we get to peek inside the lives of a bunch of interesting gals running a business. Did it need some more kinky stuff? I would say yes, plus more of that sexy car wash fantasy stuff. You know, like watching these gals through the glass and having those sexy thoughts about them.”

“That’s what I would have expected,” he said. “So, a recommend or not?”

I closed my eyes, pushed my jacket all the way up to my hips, and brought myself right up to the edge.

“A soft yes,” I said, my voice lost in lust. “Really. I mean. Okay, it was interesting. And a book nine. I wanted more though.”

Right there I lost myself, and the world melted away.

“I gotta go Darthaniel,” I said between breaths, hanging up the phone before he could say goodbye.

“See you soon,” I said to no one, the side of my head against the seat, my breasts heaving under my shirt.

I felt the spasms subside and my world drifted back to normal.

A tap on the window woke me up.

Two scruffy, yet ruddily handsome, Hispanic men in body shirts stared at me through the window, both smiling like a cat who caught the mouse. They had towels in their hands and they were drying off the crystal-clear windows.

Oh shit.

How long had they been out there?

“You want us to vacuum?” one said, half-laughing and shaking his head. “My hose is ready.”

I shook my head ‘no’ as I shoved the jacket between my legs, and gave the two of  them my best, wide-eyed innocent look.

“No thanks I’m good,” I said as I waved, winked, and drove away.

“Maybe next time.”