Zoe Zarani
Dec 2, 2015 | 1st pages, Erotica
Six-thirty on a balmy evening in early September. New York Fashion Week had just gotten off to a good start. It was my now moment. This was my big night, the presentation of this season's Desire handbag collection. In just four years, I had been lucky enough to steadily grow the business thanks to a core group of women.
My first clients had been a mix of boutique store owners, women who were climbing the heights of the corporate world and lots of ladies who lunch. Bless their loyal hearts. They kept buying my handbags and spreading the word to others. Last year I made enough profit to pay back a sizable chunk of the bank loan.
Now I wanted to celebrate and thank the group by showing off this year's line with a cocktail party in my East Village loft that was home, office and showroom.
Yolanda M Tucker
Nov 12, 2015 | 1st pages, Erotica
Interlude
Pink Pussy. Every little girl is born with one. I’ve learned over the years, through personal experience and witnessing the bullshit my friends and family have endured that pussy is powerful, dangerous, addictive and expensive. I know from personal experience that a woman will drive hundreds of miles to get her pink pussy fed. Pink pussy will make you give a big dick motherfucker your car payment. Pink pussy will have you in the garage of your lover’s house on your knees sucking his dick while his wife is at home.
Suddenly, the door opens and his wife stands at the door talking to him. Thank God she can’t see me because her view of me is obstructed by the car and the pool table. I pray that she doesn’t walk into the garage or that he doesn’t let on that I am sucking his dick. I never stopped sucking his dick. Each time he spoke I sucked harder. He was able to hold his composure and answer her questions.
When she stepped back into the house and closed the door his dick exploded in my mouth. He grabbed my head, held it tight and spewed all his love juice down my throat. I thank God she didn't walk out into the garage because she could have put a bullet in my head for being in her house sucking her husband’s dick and she probably would not have been charged for my murder. See how dangerous pink pussy can be.
Only a hungry, thirsty, pink pussy could make a woman lose her mind to this extent. My head said “Don't go to that woman’s house and fuck her husband” but my pink pussy was throbbing and begged me to take a ride on the wild side. I always give in because the possibility of her catching me fucking her husband in her house makes the orgasms unbelievable. Just then he got behind me and shoved his big dick in my pink pussy and I exploded.
I have a problem! I love adventure in my sex life. I love conquering new dick. I haven’t been able to commit to one man since the accident. I know that most people talk behind my back and call me a whore. But what they don’t know is the pain I endure daily. The pain of having my heart shattered beyond repair. Yeah, I live on the wild side but I’m just trying to survive.
Bria, one of my best girlfriends, always says “All women know how to do is survive.” She is right because for generations and generations women have stepped up to the plate and hit the ball. And by hit the ball I mean, women have sacrificed to provide the greater good for their families. We have tolerated men cheating, having families across town, beating us and abusing us in many ways. Yet women have stood and ensured the pain so that their children were fed, clothed and had a roof over their heads.
So to cover my pain, I fuck big dick men. They treat me well and there’s no drama. I get nice things and extra cash on the side. My pink pussy is fed quite well and I survive the pain to live another day. That’s the survival that I fight, scratch and scrape to hold onto daily.
I know that I don’t have a one on my chest. There are so many women around the world that either have faced, will face or is staring similar bullshit in the face this very second. We all have bullshit to deal with. I know that I would have never made it through some of the bullshit I have endured if it wasn’t for my best girlfriends. The bond that we have built over the years and the sisterhood that we have displayed to each other has kept me in very trying times.
Bria Kensley, Kennedy Collins, Suzanne Davenport, C. Valencia Dixon and I (Leticia Jenkins) have been best friends for damn near 25 years. Wow….it doesn’t seem like it’s been that long. Bria, Suzanne, C. Valencia and I met as freshmen at Charlotte University. Kennedy was grandfathered into the group about twenty years ago. All five of us have experienced some extremely great times and some very low times. We’ve cheered each other to the mountaintops and been lifelines for each other during the valley lows.
So when life gets you down and you think it’s just you, remember our stories as told here in Pink Pussy, Pies and Peanut Butter. Whatever you are going through know that it too shall pass. Always, always remember that survival equals by any means necessary and GIRLS RUN THE WORLD….PINK PUSSY HAS POWER!!!
Kari Nelson
Nov 11, 2015 | 1st pages, Erotica, Featured
Before this no one would ever have accused me of being a drama queen. Even though I have had a major tragedy in my life that would have totally warranted it, I managed to live through it gracefully by internalizing it.
Well, there were a few minor hick ups, but nothing like what is about to occur. No, the crazy that I am about to endure will completely pale by comparison because I am about to become a level ten egregiously promiscuous personality (simply put, a whore).
#THOT!
Okay, I may be exaggerating just a little, but I will be so full of drama and out of control that I won’t be able to recognize my own life. But I have been pushed to this point of no return, and it all stems from this very moment in time, this one single incident that has permanently changed my life forever and turned me inside out.
#NoMoreMissNiceGirl
I personally believe that my life has its own soundtrack. Of course it is only playing in my head, and right now the song that is on constant repeat is One Day you Will by Lady Antebellum. It is a sad, but hopeful tune that speaks to exactly where I am right now…. Somewhere deep down inside I know there is a silver lining to all that is happening all around me, and I know right now it’s not the way I feel, but one day I will- be okay that is.
I take in a heavy breath.
Lately I am finding it so hard to just keep breathing.
I think of the twenty-one years and some months that I have spent on this earth- because I am reflective and sentimental now. I think about everything, actually over think everything. Starting from the beginning with how I, Kelsey Anna Grace Aimes, was born at the University Of Florida Shands Hospital, smack dab in the middle of Gainesville, Florida –Gator Country.
My mother, Anna Grace Aimes was a graduate of the University, and she wrapped me up immediately in a baby blanket of Gator orange and blue. I still have that blanket and it comforts me, especially on days like this, days when I don’t want to go on, days when life seems so overwhelmingly painful that my heart just wants to give up and stop beating. My blanket gives me this special feeling of loyalty and dedication that is the Gator nation. My own personal support system at all times, good and bad.
The Gator nation is the most poignant thing I have left as a tribute and legacy to my mother, as she is no longer alive. She is now just my meaningless great tragedy of life, as she died senselessly saving others while my family was on spring break at the beach in Destin, Florida. She bravely jumped into the Gulf of Mexico to save two errant little girls, who refused to listen to their mother’s warning to stay out of the water and got swept away.
Yes, my mother who was an Olympic gold medalist in swimming caught a cramp in the water after rescuing the two little girls and pulling them safely to a lifeguard. Then from the way that it looked, she was stricken suddenly and just sank to the bottom of the Gulf and never resurfaced alive. All I could do at eight years old was stand on the beach and watch in horror.
I swear it is all so sad, but shit happens every day and people die even more frequently. At least that is how the world reacted once my mother was buried, and then expected me to act. So that is what I do on the outside, I grin and bear it. I suck it up and try to forget that it ever happened.
Fuck, I can’t do shit else to change it.
I have managed to find solace in that I was made in her beautiful image. We could have been twins from her pictures. —because I’ve got it all— her absolutely amazing body, long white gold blonde hair and the most striking ice blue eyes that could freeze fire, and I thank God every day that she was my beautiful mother (although I wish I could have gotten a little bit more of my father’s genes in the height department, but no one’s perfect). But, I am her living legacy, a Florida girl just like her, and as fate would have it, no, as my destiny has deemed fit to allow, I too was given the awesome opportunity of attending the University of Florida, just as she did.
This grand opportunity was not afforded to my two older brothers, Theodore and Philip, who are the epitome of my father. He was born in England and is a graduate of Oxford University and Harvard business school. While my father allowed my mother to live out her deepest desires in me, keeping me well immersed in all things Florida Gator’s, my older brothers, had no choice but to go the way of our father from their birth in London and still now today (They are both in respectable professions of my father’s choosing.)
Their lives have been solely based on my father’s rigid British upbringing of no coddling or real affection, superfluous over achievement and standards, without questions or comments in opposition. That is what they were born into and raised with and when they each reached the age of thirteen they were both shipped off to boarding school in England.
Only when it was my younger brother Philip’s turn he was joined by the man that I have been in love with ever since I gained the consciousness of the notion of amorous love, Michael W. Quinn!!!
I believe my father made the decision to pay for Michael’s tuition to join Philip at school solely because we had just lost our mother. She had only died a couple months earlier, just shy of Philip’s sojourn abroad. It was probably the only sympathetic action that my father has ever exuded towards either of my brothers. While our father doted and showered me with affection, he felt that boys required only stern direction from their father. So the loss of our mother was even worse on my brothers because they lost our mother’s tender loving affection.
But this is all about me, KELSEY… and the only thing that you need to know before I start this show is that I am a card carrying, orange and blue wearing, every day of my life, hands in the air, putting up the Gator chomp and whooping ass in the swamp, University of Florida, #GATOR FAN.
I am Gator Girl.
LaKesa Cox
Oct 14, 2015 | 1st pages, Erotica
PROLOGUE
“Please, this is not right! Please don’t do this!” Skyy shrieked.
Tears mixed with mascara streamed down her face, looking as if someone had thrown black watercolor paint on her. She squirmed a bit, trying to loosen her hands that were taped behind her. Her feet were duct-taped to the legs of an oversized dining room chair that belonged to the oversized oak table she had received as a gift. The tag, which was still attached to the brand-new Thomasville set, scratched her bare leg as she struggled for freedom. Ironically, Skyy had bigger worries than the tag on the chair.
“Don’t do this? Don’t do this? You started this! What made you think you could just play me like this? Huh? Huh? You think this is a joke? This is not a fucking joke!” the man said, waving his .38 semi-automatic in Skyy’s face.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Skyy cried.
“You’re not sorry. You’re scared. If I didn’t have this gun in my hand, you would be singing another tune. What was that you told me? Leave you the fuck alone? Was that it? You think you can go and put a restraining order on me?” He rubbed the barrel of the gun around the outline of Skyy’s mouth. “You think you can leave me? You can’t fuckin’ leave me. You owe me. If I can’t have you, nobody can.”
“What do you want from me? I’m sorry. I’ll do what you want me to do. Just please, please put the gun down, and let’s talk about it.”
“Oh no, you’re not sorry, but it don’t matter ‘cause you fuckin’ owe me. You don’t care about me. You’ve never cared about me. Your whole life you’ve walked around like you’re the shit, queen of the fuckin’ world. But guess what? Tonight…tonight, you’re gonna pay for everything. Everything!” he yelled.
Kris Michaels
Oct 7, 2015 | 1st pages, Erotica
The Kings of Guardian Joseph
Chapter One
Joseph’s muscles clenched, convulsing against the relentless attack. He couldn’t take much more. The searing agony following the whip’s sickening snap burned white-hot against his back, shoulders and ribs. Its unrelenting tentacles wrapped around his rib cage, wire barbs viciously rupturing skin from muscle. Blood ran down his body in small streams merging into tributaries of crimson. A pool of his own blood formed at his feet. From the damage being inflicted, he knew his window for escape had narrowed, but he still had a chance. The extremist group had made a mistake. They’d underestimated him. Carried into the underground room unconscious, his captors only secured his hands around the post. His legs remained free.
Fools. There were no less than five weapons within reach if he could just manage to free one hand. But time moved in the enemy’s favor, no longer his asset. Soon he would be too weak to fight, too weak to escape, too weak to kill the slimy bastard behind him with a whip. Blood traveled down his arms soaking the ropes that held him to the post. Every time the whip ripped through his flesh, he pulled with all his strength working the lines to loosen and stretch the hemp, sliding his hand ever closer to release. The man wielding the whip paused before he growled, “Filthy Assassin!
I would kill you now, but you’re to be alive when you’re beheaded in public tonight. They did not say you had to be in once piece!” The vicious taunt echoed around the small cell. Joseph hunched against the post for support drawing hot, putrid air into his lungs. He fought the nausea the pain and stench induced. The ropes biting into his hands had moved more readily the last time he pulled. He leaned into the wooden stake. His eyes focused on his sweat and blood as it co-mingled, saturating his bonds.
The distinct sound of the whip slapping the ground brought Joseph’s attention back to his sole enemy in the room. His left hand would pull free on the next lash. He swept a covert glance to the weapons he could reach. A hammer and thin wood shims lay on the table at his ten o’clock position. A sneer ghosted across his face. God he would love to pound those slivers of wood under the bastard’s nail beds. To the left of the hammer on the same tray lay a surgical knife and a metal spreader.
Castration. Not today you bastard. Seize the scalpel first, then the hammer. A deafening crack split across the room at the same time as the skin covering his shoulder and ribs seemed to be torn from his body. He couldn’t prevent his wrenching scream. His body convulsed in pain and his hand erupted from the binding. In one short lunge, he grasped blindly for the scalpel. His hand was numb, his body on fire. Instinct and training took over. Pivot! Aim—throw.
The man holding the whip froze in mid-swing, stopping with the cat o’ nine tails over his shoulder. Joseph dropped to a crouch to catch the blood-soaked strands should they strike at him again. The man fell heavily to his knees. The scalpel had missed its mark. Instead of lodging in the man’s eye, the metal had somehow flattened in flight, spinning into the man’s neck. Blood spurted in hematic spews from the severed carotid artery. The man was dead.
Michele E. Gwynn
Sep 7, 2015 | 1st pages, Erotica
Prologue
Berlin, Germany
Fall, 2013
He was beautiful. Absolutely the embodiment of divine creation with his golden curls, blue eyes, and the promise of perfect cheekbones beneath a touch of what people refer to as lingering baby fat. It wasn’t fat, per se, but the roundness of youth on the boy’s face that would fade away in another year or so. At fourteen, he was angelic. Striking. One could almost see the bones stretching and growing like a young sapling that would one day be a mighty oak tree.
For now, they lacked the musculature of a grown man. The limbs were long and the back straight. His blue eyes sparkled when he laughed and were fringed with thick, dark-blond lashes. His cheeks were painted naturally with two spots of color, and his lips, as they spread across his face with a hearty laugh, were lush and full. Even his teeth were pearly white.
Perfection. The very sight of him took the man’s breath away. The boy was tossing a ball to a young woman with red hair. She was older, a sister. Just as lovely and striking, but not so much as the boy. The man watched as the two played a game of catch in the park. He had come to this park every day in the last two weeks since he first sighted the glorious creature. On the third day, they returned with a Frisbee and a picnic lunch.
He followed them that day as he did today. They left, and the man trailed them, walking far enough behind not to be noticed, casually swinging his cane as if enjoying an afternoon stroll. They lived in an old, faded yellow apartment building with too many units to discover which one was theirs. He waited. Two hours later, she left carrying a black duffel bag over her shoulder.
He followed her for four blocks where she took the stairs down to the tube and hopped into a car that took them deep into the industrial center of the city. Tourists didn’t frequent this side of Berlin. Here, native Berliners came out to party at the clubs and to indulge themselves in the bars. Then there were the others who blended into the hip party crowd, but slipped down back alley staircases to a world most didn’t know existed. That’s where she went now without hesitation.
He waited, then followed. The staircase led to a steel door painted black. The logo at eye level was three large letters—XXX—painted red. Above those in bright neon yellow were the words ‘Club Sexo.’ He went inside and was greeted by a glass-enclosed ticket booth which contained a dark-haired man wearing a leather collar with metal studs and no shirt sitting behind the counter. To the left was a door, but it was closed.
“You have an appointment?” he asked.
“No. No, I don’t.” The man stood there, looking at the list of club rules hanging on the wall behind the host in the ticket booth.
“You have to have an appointment.” Shirtless pointed at the rules behind him. Sure enough, that was rule number one.
“How do I make an appointment?” the man asked. Shirtless gave an assessing glance to the man in the suit. He noted the man dressed well; seemed distinguished, even, with his groomed white goatee and hair accented by still dark eyebrows above cold blue eyes. His accent wasn’t quite German; more like Dutch. Still, he looked much like the caliber of men who came and went nightly.
“You go online to this website.” He handed him a business card through the dip under the glass where tickets were usually presented. “Pick who you wish to see, whatever your particular thing is. All our dommes have bios that describe their specialties. We take all major credit cards, and you pay up front online before walking through that door. The charge shows up as CX3 LLC to protect your privacy. Once your appointment is made, you’ll receive a confirmation email or text, your choice, and you just show up. Oh, and no refunds.”
