New Year, New Smut

This month I thought I would do something I have never done before: offer a sneak peak of a WIP that I am currently editing.  Keep in mind, it is still a rough draft and is something that might be considered niche erotica given the subject matter: a bisexual nudist who doesn’t believe in showers and whose primal, male funk turns him on.  I got the idea after reading about a man who lived a year traveling cross-country, bathing only in the natural bodies of water he came across on his journey.  Something about it turned me on, and thus this story was born.  As always, feedback is welcome.  Enjoy, and Happy New Year!

Raunchy Roommates

Chapter One: Broke

I never wanted a roommate.

That was Blake’s idea.

I liked living alone.  I found the solitude helped my writing.  Not that I’d had much luck in that department lately.  My publicist Jan was fond of telling me to get my hand out of my pants and get back to work.  How could she know I hadn’t written the first word in months?  Or that I didn’t wear pants?

I’m a nudist, born and raised, which is probably why I was still single at almost 40 years old.  The people I dated didn’t get it.  Or else they got too clingy because of it.  Neither of which kept me around for very long.  I’ve always been my own best company, comfortable in my own skin.  My parents raised me to be proud of who I am, of who I represented.  And what I represented was myself.  The word “narcissist” had been tossed in my face like a glass of Dom Perignon by a jilted lover more times than I could count.

And maybe I was.

Nobody spent as much time on their bodies as I did just to cover it up in the privacy of their own home.  I loved my body.  At six-five and almost 250 pounds of pure muscle, I carried myself with a bestial air men and women seemed drawn to.  Maybe it was my intense brown eyes.  Or the sharp, angular features that constructed my rugged face.  Or maybe it was the male hair that coated my broad chest and belly and drooled into the pelt between my legs.

Whatever it was that drew people to me, I was hot and I knew it.  The various mirrors I kept hanging around weren’t just to make my posh, Chicagoan penthouse feel airier.

I’m also a naturist, another reason the idea of getting a roommate was laughable.  It isn’t that I didn’t believe in showers.  I just believe in cutting my carbon footprint by as much as possible without cutting into my lavish lifestyle.  There is a word for me in the gay community:


Not the most flattering given my fabulous disposition, but I carried the mantle with pride.  Yet another reason I’m probably still single.  As a culture we have a hard enough time coping with our own nudity.  Let alone stalking around naked and malodorous.  It also didn’t hurt that my own natural stink was a lightning rod to my cock.  The reek of other people also turned me on.  Men.  Women.  It didn’t matter.  I’m an equal opportunity fucker.

“Did you hear me, Ian?” Blake scolded through the phone sandwiched between my ear and shoulder.  “You’re broke.  You haven’t written a word in a year and yet your expenses have risen exponentially.”

The way he said “expenses” reminded me of my latest excursion to the Cayman Islands.  Ten days in the Caribbean.  Eating what I wanted.  Fucking who I wanted.  No guilt, no shame…just the way I liked things.

“I heard you,” I said, a little annoyed.  “You just caught me playing my…game.”

It wasn’t a lie, per se.  Playing video games sometimes helped kick start the creative juices.  My Xbox was still paused, the intro music for Halo: Reach muted in the background.  Except Blake hadn’t caught me blowing away Covenant bent on destroying the human race.  He’d caught me masturbating.  My softening cock still glistened with my juices against the hairy muscle of one thigh.  The dense male hair at the base reeked of my pheromones…of me.

“Ian!” Blake screeched, pulling me out of my cock trance.

“What do you want me to say, Blake?” I bit back at him.  “I have expensive tastes.  You know this.”

“And those tastes are going to land you in the poorhouse if you’re not more careful,” Blake snapped back.  He heaved a deep sigh through the phone and I could almost see him rubbing his temples in frustration like I might make his head explode.  “Have you given any more thought to my roommate idea?”

“Have you ever had a roommate, Blake?”  I cut him off before he could answer.  “Someone who isn’t your husband?” I corrected.  “It’s a lot to process.  Learning somebody’s habits.  Them learning yours.”

“It’ll be a change,” Blake sympathized, “especially for you.  But a roommate will help you offset some of your expenses.  As it stands now, you have enough cash to carry you through the end of the year.  But only if you curb some of your spending.”

“Don’t worry that number pushing head of yours,” I offered as lightly as I could.  “The kid’s still got a few wildcards up his sleeve.”

“You’re hardly a kid, you’re forty.”

“At the end of the year,” I quickly corrected him.

Blake loved reminding me of my age, as if it wasn’t constantly breathing down my throat like an unrelenting cock.

“If nothing else you can always stay with me and Shad,” Blake laughed, the tension melting between us.  “If you lose your place, that is.”

That was Blake for you.  Always looking out for me.  He was more than my accountant.  He was my best friend.  The two of us had practically grown up together.  I was the one who officiated his wedding, for fuck’s sake.  If anyone knew the extent of my hedonism it was Blake Silver.  Even if it was just numbers flitting across a screen to him.

“Tell Shad not to make up the guest room just yet,” I said.  “I’ve still got a time before I’m completely destitute.”

“Who said anything about the guest room?” Blake quipped.

“Goodbye, Blake.”

I hung up and tried to get into my cock again but the mood had passed.  Leave it to Blake to kill my boner.  Instead I stalked naked over to my laptop, flashing all of Chicago a glimpse at my brilliant physique.  Fuck, I loved that view.  The Chicagoan skyline outside my window was like my own voyeuristic giant peeking in on me.  And I loved giving it a show.

The screen was still frozen on the blank document I had toiled with earlier, trying to spew words onto the page that didn’t sound like utter shit.  I opened a web browser and went to Craigslist.  I stared at the blank space awaiting my ad like it was the manuscript for my latest novel.  How do you advertise for something you didn’t even want?  “Self-indulgent nudist seeks raunchy roommate” seemed a little on the nose.

In the end I went the more practical route:

Roommate Wanted:

Struggling writer seeks roommate to share expenses on luxurious downtown flat.  Must be respectful of personal space as this is still MY home.

Not the warmest advertisement on the market but I think I got my point across.  I added the address in case someone wanted to Google Maps the Townsend Commons, as well as my personal cell number so they could set the appointment.

Once posted, I sat back in my chair at the dining room table, arms behind my head just…staring at the screen.  The idea of sharing my penthouse with a complete stranger triggered my anxiety – that hidden gem always lurking there beneath the surface of my otherwise flawless physique. I should have added “must be comfortable with nudity” as a caveat to my ad.  Either way, whoever responded would have to get used to seeing my hairy, muscular body walking around in the buff.

If someone responded.  Did people even still use Craigslist?  I hoped not.

The smell of my ripe pits triggered the visceral response of my cock all over again.  Soon, I was standing on end, my bulbous head jutting angrily through the hood of foreskin hugging the bloated coronal ridge.

I closed my laptop, standing to flash all of Chicago a view of my perfect muscle ass as I stalked over to the sofa and back to more pressing concerns.


A Holiday Excerpt


“GODDAMNIT RODRIGO!”  Snake’s thunderous voice made them both jump as he paced around their kitchen island like a caged animal, Marissa’s phone clamped to his ear.  “I don’t care if you have to dig a snow tunnel to get here ese.  Just get your ass here and pick me up.  You owe me, homeboy.”

Snake ended the call, tossing the phone back on the counter.  He plucked a cookie off the tray sitting there and bit into the gingerbread head.  “Got anything to drink in this place?”

“There’s beer in the fridge,” Marissa offered.

Snake opened the refrigerator and rummaged for one of Thom’s Coors Light.  Twisting the cap off the bottle, his gaze shifted to Thom.  A little smile curled his kissable lips as those dark eyes glided over Thom’s naked body, lingering on his flaccid penis.

“Looks like I interrupted something,” Snake said.  “You two should really lock your doors.  Don’t you know how many burglaries happen around Christmas?”

“Wha-What do you want?”

“Told you ese, just need a place to hang low awhile.”  Snake cast a cursory look around the kitchen.  “Besides, nothing you two have I need.  But seeing how it looks like we’re going to be spending the night together we should get to know each other.”

Marissa stepped between them.  “My husband’s name is Thom,” she said.  “I’m Marissa.”

Those deep, honeyed eyes ensnared her where she stood.  The thickening bulge beneath Thom’s borrowed sweatpants reminded her of her empty cunt.

“Well, Marissa,” Snake smiled over the longneck of his beer, “since you seem to be the one calling the shots here, tell your hubby he can get dressed.  You too, chica, unless you two feel like finishing whatever it is you started.”

He licked his lips as he drank her in with his eyes.

Marissa held his gaze, defiant despite her pounding heart.  “We are fine.”

Thom’s entire body flushed red as his face.  He looked defeated, humiliated.  Still, Marissa thought she saw his little member twitch between his legs.


Thom trailed off when Marissa flashed him a hard look.  She knew what he was about to say.  Snakes erection was more noticeable now, an obscene tent in the front of his borrowed sweats.  He gave the thickness a smug tug, smiling at the way Marissa’s eyes lingered.

“I think wifey here sees something she wants for Christmas, hombre,” Snake chuckled.  Thom gave a pathetic squeak.  “No worries, man.  Not really in the business of breaking up marriages.  What God brought together, and all that.”

Snake drained the rest of his beer and grabbed another from the fridge before pushing past Marissa and Thom, and back into the living room.  Both gaped after him a second before following.  The twinkle of Christmas lights mixing with the glow from the fireplace lent a soft warmth to the downstairs.  Snake went to the mantle where two overstuffed stockings hung, eyeing their wedding photos.

“No kids?” he asked.

“No,” Marissa answered.

Snake searched her face, his dark eyes penetrating.  “Cute couple like you should have at least a couple little ones running around.”

“We don’t,” Marissa said.

What she left unsaid was that Thom’s sperm lacked the motility needed to get her pregnant, which was fine with Marissa.  She preferred the independence of being childless, though the idea of kids had grown more and more appealing over the past few years—almost as pressing as her need to come.

Snake shrugged, returning his eyes to the photo.  “You are one hot blanca, no doubt about that.”

“How long are you planning on keeping us hostage here?” Thom asked, more assertive than Marissa would have imagined considering he was naked, bashfully trying to cover himself.

“You already tired of me, hombre?” Snake said.  He took a long draught of his beer and set the bottle on the mantle.  “Just till my buddy gets here, then I’m ghost.  All goes the way I hope, we all stand to get a little something in return.”

Snake’s dark eyes snapped to Marissa.  “Impressive, blanca, no?”

Marissa realized she was staring again.  Her eyes danced between the faces of the two men—Thom with something of a scorned look to his blue eyes; Snake with a hungry gleam in his.  Marissa’s face heated beneath the combined weight of their stares.

“What’s the matter?” Snake said, his accent going straight to Marissa’s pussy.  “Hubby not giving you what you need?”

“Thom is a good provider,” Marissa said, the words trembling on her lips.

Snake laughed.  “I’m not talking about the house, the job, the white fucking picket fence, blanca.”  He made a rude gesture with his hips that made Marissa ache.  “I’m talking about fucking, chica, about sex.  How does Thom here take care of you where it counts?”


If you liked what you read and want to see how things end up for Marissa and Thom, check out Cuck’d for Christmas on Amazon here and feel free to leave a review. Otherwise, I wish everyone a warm season.  May your stockings be hung and full to bursting.

See you next year!


Too Long


It had been too long and we both knew it.  It was like a firewall between us.  The random arguments.  We were at each other’s throats.  Not that it was our fault.  At least, not one of us.  Life got in the way.  Add the kids, the schedules, the school lunches – bed by ten and wash, rinse, repeat – and marriage lost some of its eroticism.

So when he pinned me against the wall out of nowhere, I was ready to snap.  His heady lips crushing into mine crushed my anger at having him confront me like this, in the bathroom, naked and about to shower. When he palmed my cunt that familiar, too-long forgotten heat flooded my abdomen.  He had me wet and exactly where he wanted me.

“Time to make up for lost time,” he growled against my neck, his kisses soft and rough in equal parts.

I could feel his cock hard against my belly.

“The kids are downstairs, having breakfast,” I breathed.  “We…”

“…are doing this,” he finished for me.  “Guess you’ll have to be quiet.  Bite me if you need to scream.”

And I did.  Leaving a bright blue mark where my teeth sank into his shoulder when he reached inside of me with his thickness, and i flooded his cock with my release.

It really had been too long.




The Happening at Hartford


She hated haunted houses.  Ever since she was little and her dad took her through that stupid haunted house at the school’s Fall Festival and she’d bolted through the first exit door she saw—Cristobel Shaw had hated haunted houses.

All of her friends knew it, which was probably why they insisted on going to one that night.


Cristobel hated Halloween.

It was probably because she hated being scared.  Growing up she never did the things her friends did on Halloween, like play with Ouija boards or conduct séances in creepy cemeteries.  All of this, despite her stoic proclamation that she was, indeed, Wiccan.  Cristobel preferred her Hallows’ Eve a little more serene, her anxiety firmly in check.

Which was why she was fuming mad when they pulled through a pair of rusty, cast-iron gates and into the huge parking lot outside of a gutted asylum.

Hartford Asylum had once been a haven for the criminally insane.  Its reputation of harboring some of the city’s most dangerous men and women was probably why someone decided to convert the place into one of the largest haunted houses around after it was closed a few years back.  Three stories of climbing gray walls and rooms actors were allowed to drag you away from and through a hellish maze of torment.  Whoever made it out “alive” got their money back.

“No,” Cristobel said, watching the flashing lights crackle through darkened windows as they pulled up.  She could hear the screams from inside even though their windows were up.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” shouted Lauren Kyle, hugging the back of the passenger seat where Cristobel was sitting.

“I told you she’d be too scared,” insisted Lindsay Munez.

“We’ll pay,” pressed Mary Chastain all serious from the driver’s seat.  “You’ll be with us the whole time.”

“No,” Cristobel said again.

Not only had her friends deceived her, but Cristobel was not dressed in the same hoodie-and-sweats Fall wear as the other girls.  They had told her they were going to the club, so Cristobel had dressed accordingly—short black skirt and v-neck blouse that showed off just enough of her proud cleavage to make the guys dressed in goofy costumes throw drinks at her all night.  Besides, the boots laced to her knees wouldn’t accommodate running through a haunted house very well.

Cristobel looked around at her friends’ expectant faces.  Pissed as she was, she certainly didn’t want to be that girl—the one that ruined everyone else’s good time.

“Go,” she said at last, folding her arms.  “I’ll wait here.”

“You sure, Cristy?” Lauren said from the backseat.

“I can stay with you if you want,” Mary offered.

Cristobel glanced back at Lindsay.  “Any of that blunt left?”

“Yeah,” Lindsay said.

“Then I’ll be fine,” Cristobel laughed.  “I’ll celebrate this fucked up holiday my own way.”  She shook her head.  “I swear I’ll never get peoples’ fascination with death.”

“We’ll hit the club later,” Lauren promised, slapping a wet kiss on Cristobel’s cheek.

“The website said it should take about an hour,” Mary said.  “We should be out by then.”

“If we can stay alive…” Lindsay joked ominously.

“Go,” Cristobel said, snatching the rest of the blunt from the ashtray and sparking it.  “I’m already bored.”

Cristobel watched her friends disappear behind the shadowy walls of Hartford Asylum through a haze of pot smoke. She listened as electronic thunder pounded with the screams of the terrified whose voices rose on the night like some hellish roller coaster ride gone horribly awry.  Faux tombstones littered the leaf-strewn front lawn.  Bloody mannequins swung from trees or lay disemboweled by the front gates.

Cristobel shuddered.

No matter how many times she rationalized the fanfare of Halloween—the blood and guts and gore—Cristobel could never quite get over her innate fear of the holiday.  Luckily, marijuana had many healing properties when it came to the irrational brain, and soon Cristobel felt some of her anxiety melt away.

She began to grow restless in the front seat of Mary’s car.

Opening the door to stretch her legs, Cristobel nearly knocked a couple over as they headed to the Asylum.

“Oh…sorry,” she said, certain they could see and smell the pungent cloud reeking from the car.

The man and woman, already jumpy with anticipation for the adrenaline rush they were about to put themselves through, only laughed and quickened their pace, practically running toward the screams.  Cristobel wished she could be half as ballsy.  Afterward, the couple would probably go home and fuck their living brains out.  Cristobel had heard fear could have that effect on people.

She rubbed her bare arms in the crisp breeze, her nipples suddenly stiff with the thought.  Aside from its antianxiety components, weed also made Cristobel horny as hell.

She found herself gazing up at Hartford Asylum with a newfound lust.  Not that she could ever will herself to enter its dark walls.  But the thought of it…of giving herself over to her fear…elicited a dark yearning somewhere in the pit of her core.

Cristobel stalked through the night—over tombstones and fake corpses—breezy fingers tussling her long black hair as she let her eyes climb the dizzying heights of the asylum.  Somehow, the screams coming from inside no longer sounded as hellish as before, but called like a distant song to some empty place in her groin.  Cristobel suddenly envied her friends for experiencing it all without her.  She cursed her own misgivings and childish fears, keeping her from this new need.

“You lost?”

The deep voice pulled Cristobel from her spiraling thoughts.  She was surprised to find herself outside an emergency exit door on the side of the building.  The sight of it reminded her how quickly she had fled all those years ago.

The man peering at her through a fall of black hair framing his handsome face was smoking a cigarette, leaning against the brick and mortar of the building with one leg cocked on the wall behind him.  He was covered in blood.

One of the workers from inside no doubt taking a break.

Still, the urge to run screaming back to the car and lock herself inside clawed at her flesh.

“I’m…waiting for some friends,” Cristobel said.

“Lucky them,” the stranger said.

The way he smiled at her made Cristobel’s face flush beneath the nearby streetlamp shining down on them like a police investigator’s spotlight.  Something about him put Cristobel at ease…to know she wasn’t alone out here.

“So, what’s it like working at a haunted house?” Cristobel asked, attempting small talk.

“Boring, actually,” he said.  “How many times can you scare someone twice?  They want us to be inventive.  Guess I’m just not smart enough for all that.  This is just a part-time gig, anyway.  You know, to get a little extra cash.”

He drew a long drag from his cigarette and extended a bloodied hand.  “I’m Jason, by the way.”

Cristobel blinked down at the wet fingers.

“Oh, sorry,” Jason said, wiping his hands on his jeans.  “It’s fake.  Water-based.  Washes right off.”

Blood still smeared his fingernails and the small crevices of his fingers.  Something about it—such a deep, viscous black—called to her.

“Cristobel,” she said, feeling his warm hand swallow hers.

Jason pulled away, leaving a red smear on her palm.  “So why didn’t you accompany your lady friends inside?” he asked.

Cristobel’s breath frosted on the cool air.  “I don’t like haunted houses, is all,” she shrugged.   “Guess I just don’t get off on being scared.”

“So then you admit it,” Jason smirked.  “You’re scared.”

Cristobel bustled, ready to fly into a defense that would hold up in any court.  It took her a moment to realize he was fucking with her.

“Cute.”  Cristobel couldn’t resist a smile.  “Is this your way of first impressions?  Show up covered in blood and mock a girl’s phobia.”

Jason laughed, flicking his cigarette away.  “It’s all an illusion Cristobel,” he said, brandishing his bloody hands.  “All makeup and lights and sounds.  It’s all movie production without the cameras.  Action!”

Cristobel’s heart pounded faster and faster as the man inched closer and closer.  Fear ripped at her to run, but a tree suddenly pressed against her back and the man’s body heat falling in on her felt too good.

“Here,” said Jason.  “Touch.  See for yourself.”

With trembling fingers Cristobel dared reach out to touch the man’s upturned hand, stroking every crimson-stained line of his palm.  She knew it was all an act, as Jason had told her.  It just looked so…real.  It terrified her and excited her all at once, and Cristobel was suddenly overcome with the need to feel those bloody fingers on her body.  That need was intensified by a wave of screams from inside the asylum.

Jason watched her beneath the shadow of his long hair, a coy little smile playing on his lips.

Did he want her too?

Cristobel needed to know.

Bringing one of his bloody digits to her lips, she kissed the tip of his finger and tasted the metallic bite of the makeup. The gesture seemed to amuse Jason.

“See, Cristobel,” he said.  “Nothing to be afraid of.”

Everything happened so fast—Jason’s strong arms wrapping around her, his body pinning her to the tree, those stubbly lips closing over hers in a mad kiss.

Cristobel couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move.

Her heart pounded with the thunder rolling inside, yet Cristobel made no attempt to push the man away.  Instead, her fingers drifted beneath Jason’s bloodied shirt, feeling the tautness of his shoulders, the sweatiness of his flesh.  One hand reached for the hem of her skirt, fingers like soft velvet stroking the smooth meat of her thigh.  Cristobel could feel the hardness of his cock strained against her belly, one knee planted between her legs parting her thighs.

Jason’s finger traced the line of her panties, ripples of sensation sparking across Cristobel’s flushed skin like the flashes of light in the asylum’s windows.  She could only stand there with his tongue doing laps in her mouth, tasting his tobacco-addled breath as he pulled her panties aside to find the wet opening of her smooth slit.  Her hips pulsed forward impulsively as Jason stroked her pussy lips with one cruel finger.

The screams in Cristobel’s mind echoed those rising from Harford Asylum.    Jason turned his head slightly to the side, no doubt expecting a group of terrified patrons to come bursting through any moment.  Were it not for the need pooling within her core, Cristobel might have thrown her head back and laughed at the night’s sky.  Had she really been that afraid, herself?

“Fuck me,” she whispered into Jason’s ear, inhaling the smell of him—the musk and tobacco and blood.

Cristobel was already tugging open his jeans when Jason’s mouth closed over hers again so hard tiny whiskers scraped her lips.  Beneath her skirt those big, skilled hands found her panties, giving the lace a rough tug.

The crisp air, cool against her exposed sex, taunted Cristobel’s hungry cunt even as she hauled Jason’s eager cock through the hole in his boxers.

For a heartbeat Cristobel could only gaze at it.

He was so hard.  The shaft thick in her hand.  A thread of the man’s arousal glinting off the wet, pink flesh of his head.  Cristobel longed to taste him.  To suck him dry right there beneath the lamplight to the music of screams.

Jason had other plans.

Those big hands found the curves of her ass, bloody fingers digging into her fleshy cheeks as Cristobel felt herself lifted bodily from the ground and then roughly…thoroughly fucked.

Her cries of pleasure mingled with the screams of the frightened as she took this stranger beyond those terrifying walls.  Cristobel’s world narrowed to flushed, slapping flesh and crisp autumnal wind and dried leaves skipping across the ground like dancing nymphs.  Tree bark scraped at her shoulders like skeletal hands urging her on.  Her hips rushing to meet each of his thrusts, urging his climax even as he charged Cristobel onward toward hers.

Cristobel came in a rush around his cock, her cries swallowed by a primal moan from Jason as they toppled over the edge together.

For a moment she could only let him hold her, cock still full within the walls of Cristobel’s pussy as if Jason was afraid to leave her.  Spent, Cristobel wiggled herself against him as she listened to cackle of fake thunder.  The screams.  Jason’s quick, hot breath raked across her throat.

Cristobel was the first to break the sated silence.  “You got blood all over me.”  She could still taste the makeup’s metallic tang on her lips.

Jason breathed in the scent of her hair.  “Like I said…all fake.  Should come off the next time you shower.”

Cristobel eyed the red smears painting her thighs and arms and god knows where else.  She would definitely need a shower after this.

The emergency exit door burst open in a swell of screams.

Cristobel pushed away from Jason in a wash of embarrassment, snatching her panties up as a group of about a dozen girls came pouring from inside.  A few boys laughed and lingered behind, pinpoints of their fear glinting on their upper lips and forehead as they made their way leisurely through the exit long before the experience was over.


Cristobel would’ve recognized Lindsay’s voice anywhere.  Mary and Lindsay were huddled near her, both white as ghosts.  They looked ready to bolt with the rest of the group, but intrigue kept them planted where they stood, eyes collectively riveted on Jason.

“Oh…hey, guys,” Cristobel said, feeling her face heat.

She was sure she looked a wreck.  Her hair messed.  Make up fucked.  Finger smears of fake blood painting her body like a murder victim in some horror movie.

“Who’s this?” Mary asked, all at once protective and amused.

“This?” Cristobel said.  “This is Jason.  He…was just showing me around the estate.”

“That’s right,” said Jason, still fixing his jeans.  “Just showing your friend there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

He gave Cristobel a wink before donning a hockey mask from his back pocket.  He hauled a bloodied machete from the ground.  Somehow, Cristobel hadn’t noticed them before.  Jason pulled on his mask, eliciting a giggle from Lauren.

“Jason,” she said.  “I get it.”

Cristobel didn’t, though she assumed it was a reference to one of those dreadful horror movies Lauren was always going on about.  Though now, Cristobel thought she might just give one a try.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me ladies,” said Jason, his voice muffled through the mask.  “I need to get back to work.”

Jason ducked back through the emergency exit, the door slamming shut behind him.  His sudden absence made Cristobel wonder if the man was even real.  Had she really just fucked a complete stranger outside of a haunted house?

The moisture between her legs assured Cristobel she wasn’t crazy.  That some of Hartford Asylum hadn’t rubbed off on her.

“You slut,” Lindsay scolded as they walked away.

“Is that why you hate haunted houses?” Lauren laughed.  “You want to fuck every guy you see in a bloody t-shirt?”

Cristobel shrugged with a shy smile.  “Maybe.  What makes anyone do the things they do?”

She paused at the pair of mannequins she’d stepped over before.  They were so real, their faces twisted in grotesque expressions. She felt herself shutter with a new breeze.

“And hey, maybe we can skip the club tonight,” Cristobel added.  “I’m kind of tired.”

Mary snorted.  “I bet.  But don’t worry sweetie.  We’ll get you home safe and sound.”

The blood came off easily enough, just as Jason had promised.  The thought of him as Cristobel watched the crimson water swirling around the shower drain elicited some of the heat the man made her feel earlier.  Falling into her bed in just a robe, Cristobel clicked on her television and immediately turned to a different channel.

She hated the news.

Yet the news seemed to be on every channel.

Giving up the fight, she settled on a channel with a morose-looking journalist peering sadly into the camera like she was looking directly at Cristobel.  There was something familiar about the building behind her, sectioned off with police tape and flashing lights.  A banner along the bottom of the screen read:

The Happening at Hartford

Cristobel’s heart began to race as her phone chirped on the nightstand beside her.

“Oh, Cristobel, thank god you’re okay,” Mary said from the other line.  “The other girls are in hysterics but I…I just needed to know you were alright.”

Mary sounded near hysterics herself.

“I’m fine,” Cristobel said, trying to keep her own anxiety in check.  “Calm down, Mary.  What’s going on?”

“Hartford…the haunted house…killer…”

The words all came spilling out, fragmented, but enough Cristobel grasped what her friend was trying to say.  All at once she recognized the place on her television screen—the same climbing walls and leaf-strewn lawn, littered now with evidence markers instead of tombstones, body bags rather than mannequins.

Cristobel felt ill.

“I have to go,” she said into her phone, hanging up even as Mary pleaded for her to stay on the line.

Cristobel Shaw really hated Halloween.

A rap at her bedroom window snatched her from her brooding thoughts.  Jason smiled at her through the glass, his hair a tumbling mess around his blood-smeared face, eyes wild as they watched her trembling fingers reaching for the lock…

Some Kinky, Masturbatory Fun

Hey all!

Seems like ages since I posted some sexy smut.  Between gearing up for a new book launch, editing, writing, and the daily grind of the 9 to 5, I have been busy to say the least.  So today I thought I’d offer a snippet of one of the stories I wrote a few years ago. This story is still in its rough draft, and is just an excerpt, but I hope you enjoy anyways.

Until next month lovelies,




Roderick’s face was already blazing as the ginger-haired hostess led us to our table.  The bistro I had chosen served brunch exclusively, and only on Sunday mornings.  The waiting list was a mile long but it was well worth the wait to see the blush creeping up Roderick’s neck, highlighting his cheeks.

“And is this to your liking, gentlemen?” the hostess asked.

It was a table set for two with a bleached linen tablecloth so long it almost touched the floors.  Warm sunlight spilled through the slanted window beside it.  The flame from a single taper candle in the center of the table danced the way I imagined Roderick’s cock would be dancing before long.

“Yes, this will do just fine,” I smiled.

Our hostess nodded, pulling our chairs out for us.  Roderick sat first, looking around nervously.  The bistro was an informal place, but Roderick had chosen a suit and tie anyway.  Armani, by the looks of it.  He looked dashing, if a little stiff around the collar.  I, on the other hand, had chosen something a little more breezy—short sleeve Polo, khaki shorts, and a pair of open-toed sandals over sockless, feet.

“Jonathan will be your server this afternoon,” our hostess said, handing us our menus.  “Enjoy your brunch.”

“Thank you.”

The hostess left us alone but I was too distracted to read the day’s specials.  I sensed Roderick’s rising anxiety across the table.  The way he refused to look at me.  How his fingers thrummed the sides of his menu.  I allowed the din of the bistro to grow in our silence.  The scraping of silverware as people ate.  The oblivious idle chatter around us.

“Have you decided?” I finally asked.

Roderick shook his head that he hadn’t.

“Then might I suggest the Shitake Sunrise,” I said.  “It is phenomenal here.”

“Excellent choice!” a new voice chimed.

It belonged to a smiling college-aged boy with a ruddy face and a mop of curly blonde hair.  In one hand he held a pair of empty wine glasses, the bottle of chateau noir I’d ordered with our reservations in the other.

“I’m Jonathan, and I’ll be taking care of you gentlemen,” Jonathan said.  “Am I to assume you have dined with us before?”

Jonathan was handsome and gay, everything I looked for in a man.  That boyish smile belonged on the cover of every GQ and Vanity Fair magazine cover ever made.  I let my eyes cascade over the broad chest stretching Jonathan’s white button up, the mounds of the bubble ass packed in the back of his black dress pants.

“Best brunch in the city,” I smiled.

Jonathan twisted the cork from the throat of the wine and held it out for me.  I inhaled the fragrant hints of forest floor, mushroom, and chocolate.  It smelled divine.  I watched him pour two glasses, offering me mine first.

“May I begin you gentlemen with some fresh fruit?”

“That sounds lovely, Jonathan.” I said.  “And my friend and I will be having the Shitake Sunrise together.”

“Very good, sir,” Jonathan said.

I smiled at the way the word “Sir” sounded on his pretty lips, wondering if it would be untoward to give another man my number while out with a client.  When he walked away, I caught myself checking out his ass again, wondering what those fleshy cheeks might look like after an hour or so alone with me.

The thought made me hard.

Roderick was still pensively lost in his menu.  I watched him, swirling my wine in my glass and wondering if Roderick’s cock was already hard from the anticipation.  I sipped my wine.

“Delicious!” I declared.  “Have a glass, Roderick.”

“No, thank you.”

His voice was a shaky whisper.

I nodded.  Setting the glass aside I fixed Roderick with a hard look until the other man met my stare.

“Say the word and we call this all off and go back to the hotel.”

“N-No,” Roderick stuttered, almost panicky.  “It’s just this is all so…so public.”

I allowed a smile to touch my lips, a hint of my wickedness.  “That’s the point, Mr. Senator, of public humiliation.”

Worry flashed in Roderick’s blue eyes.  The youngest man elected to the state senate, he hadn’t quite gotten used to being under the public’s microscope.  Sure, in every other facet of his life Roderick certainly seemed conservative enough—Masters in Political Science; family man; staunch republican.  There was just this one little thing.

A secret he was willing to pay dearly to keep.

Thankfully the young Senator found me when he did.  Roderick wasn’t my first time dealing in political anonymity.  I went to great lengths securing the meetings of each of my clients, at times placing entire continents between them and anyone they might know.  It was part of my price, along with their submission.  Roderick had to learn to trust me.

“You are safe with me, Roderick,” I said, the command in my voice snagging Roderick out of his whirling thoughts.  “If at any time you feel like you cannot go on, you know what to say.”

Color slashed across Roderick’s face all over again.  “Artichoke,” he whispered, looking at his clenched fists.

I smiled at his capitulation.  “Good boy.”

Jonathan was back with our fruit—a summer medley of grapes, strawberries, kiwi, and various melons is a sweet sauce.  Setting the bowls in front of us, I noticed the way our waiter’s eyes flashed between us as if sensing Roderick’s unease.  He looked down at me and I could almost see the boy’s runner’s body strung up in my dungeon.

“I took the liberty of putting in your omelets,” Jonathan said.  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

There was that word again.

“No, Jonathan, that will be all.”

I watched our waiter’s ass as he walked away, imagining the way it might feel beneath my open palm.  When I looked at Roderick he was watching me, the need in his blue eyes reaching across the table.

It was time.

Beneath the table, hidden by the long tablecloth, I slipped out of one of my sandals.   The warmth of the day, coupled by the walk to the bistro had made my size 14s damp with sweat.  I stroked my foot down the senator’s calf, hooking one long toe beneath the open mouth of his pants leg.  Roderick’s eyes went wide, his body stiff as I imagined his dick must be.

I allowed a satisfied chuckle and withdrew my foot.  Roderick loved it when I laughed at him.  I loved the way he squirmed for me.  Sitting back I chose a fat chunk of melon and popped it in my mouth, chewing slowly, savoring the juices bursting across my pallet.

“Take out your cock, Roderick.”

Roderick’s eyes popped wide.  “N-Now?”

I leveled him with a threatening stare.  I hated repeating myself.  “Reach under the table, unzip those expensive pants you’re wearing, and take out your dick…now.”

His mouth opened and closed like a fish trying to breathe out of water.  I stroked my bare foot up his leg, coaxing Roderick to do as I bid.  He looked defeated as he reached under the table cloth.  I smiled when I heard the tinkle of his belt buckle being splayed across his lap, the distinctive sound of his zipper.  I trailed my foot up his leg, dipping across his thigh until I felt Roderick’s cock.

I was right; he was hard



It was a time of revolution, and so we holed ourselves up.  Bodies crushed together.  Naked flesh knitted to naked flesh like a finely stitched mesh.  We made love in that darkness until sweat wept from us.  Until the body was weak and we cried out from exhaustion.

The world could have ended beyond us, yet we were still here.

“I must fight now.”

“I know.”

“Think of me?”

“Always, my love.”

I hoisted my weapon as the skies lit up, not knowing when or where we should meet each other again.

Cuck’d for Christmas: A Preview

It’s live!  My new erotic short story Cuck’d for Christmas is available for purchase on Amazon, and to celebrate here is a sexy little excerpt.  Enjoy!


Marissa gazed down at her husband’s head tucked neatly between her silken thighs, spread just enough on the bed to allow Thom access to her hungry pussy.  Thom’s brow wrinkled beneath the beads of sweat forming there, nose nestled in Marissa’s smooth mound.  His committed tongue stroked little starbursts of pleasure across her clit, eliciting tiny whimpers from Marissa’s throat that begged for more…more…

…far more than Thom could give her.

More than once Marissa found her gaze drifting back to the TV Thom insisted on always keeping on in their bedroom.  The Weather Channel had promised a white Christmas and they had delivered on that promise a day early.  Christmas Eve, and the moving storm front, promised to stall holiday traffic across the county.

“You okay, babe?”

Marissa gave a little start when she realized Thom was watching her beneath heavy-lidded blue eyes.  She found herself looking him over as she so often did these days—his sandy blond hair swept sweatily to the side of his clean-shaven, almost boyish face, his broad shoulders and lean, ropey muscles that rippled as he pawed hungrily at the insignificant organ between his legs.

Thom waited on bended knee like a puppy waiting for a command, forever concerned about her pleasure.  Ordinarily he did wonders with his tongue and mouth and fingers, making Marissa cum until she trembled in orgasm before satisfying himself with her cunt.  How could she tell him that tonight he simply wasn’t enough?


“I’m fine,” Marissa said, grateful for the excuse of a police siren that lilted distantly on the icy night outside.  “I just can’t remember if I locked the door or not.  Could you run down and check for me?”

She wondered if her husband put voice to the lie, if he sensed the undulating need swelling in the pit of her belly.  But in typical Thom fashion he just sighed and rose naked from the bed.

“Sure, be right back.”

Good old, predictable Thom—non-confrontational, non-aggressive, a pacifist in every aspect of his life, including the bedroom.

When she was alone Marissa threw herself back on their bed.  What the hell’s wrong with me?  She told herself it was the stress of the holidays that kept her from focusing on their play, but Marissa knew it was much more than that.  Five years or marriage and Thom had never made her come, at least not with that puny thing between his legs—more veins and head than any real meat.

Thom knew it, too, and that only seemed to make it worse, to add to his masculine shame.  Sure he stepped it up other ways sexually, but in the end Marissa was never quite sated.  And tonight all of that pent up need seemed to pool in the pit of her belly like overflow from a flood.  If Thom ever asked her what she wanted for Christmas Marissa might have said, “The most mind-blowing fuck of my life!”

But Thom never asked, and Marissa could never bring herself to tell.

Marissa looked down at her naked, thirty year-old body, her tits heavy and flushed with the need burning her from the inside out.  Long black hair curled in ringlets around her breasts and she gave one of the silver rings spearing her nipples a harsh tug she felt deep in the folds of her cunt.  Her back arched.  Reaching between her legs she found her slit, still wet with Thom’s saliva, excruciatingly empty.  Not for the first time Marissa imagined someone other than Thom filling that void.

A strange scuffling noise downstairs pulled her from her fantasies of bigger cock.


When he didn’t answer Marissa reached for her discarded robe on the floor, too aware of the sticky dampness coating her thighs.

“Thom, I swear to baby Christ you’d better not be fucking with me.”

What am I talking about?  Thom never fucks with anyone.

Marissa padded barefoot down the hall, robe swinging open behind her as she descended the stairs.  She always went all out for Christmas—garland, lights, presents, and, the show-stopper, the fresh cut Christmas tree she and Thom had picked out together a few nights before, fully loaded with ornaments, ribbon, twinkling lights, and displayed in full-view in front of the bay window.  The smell of pine needles and fresh-baked gingerbread cookies still cooling on the kitchen counter filled her nose when she rounded the corner.

Marissa froze.

Standing in their living room near the fireplace was a man.  Firelight twinkled in his dark eyes as he drew Marissa in with his gaze.  He looked Latino, a head taller than her husband and thick with muscle that bulged beneath the orange jumpsuit he wore.  One powerful arm hooked around his throat held Thom’s naked body at bay.

“No sudden moves lady or I’ll snap this vato’s neck right here.”

Marissa couldn’t move if she wanted.  Panic threatened to cripple her right there in the living room.  Danger crackled on the air like electricity, sending a cold chill rippling through her.

“Take anything you want.”  She struggled to keep her voice level.  “Just don’t hurt him.”

“Fresh clothes,” the stranger growled, his voice tinged with an accent.  “Rapita chica!  Go!”

Marissa raced back upstairs, arousal replaced by adrenaline as she tore through the dresser drawers looking for something that might fit the intruder.  He was so much bigger than Thom, especially through his chest.  None of Thom’s shirts would fit.  In the end she settled on a pair of gray sweatpants and nothing else.

A flash from the television caught her attention.  Clutching Thom’s sweats to her chest, Marissa eyed the words emblazoned across the bottom of the screen.

Manhunt Underway for Escaped Inmate