Not all endings are happy – #LiteraryErotica #Marketing #Obsession

Image by Wendy Koon from Pixabay

I haven’t published anything in about a month. I have a novel-length work in progress (the third book in my Toymakers Guild series), but meanwhile, I’d like to put out some shorter pieces to help keep my Amazon rank up.

So I thought I might put together a cover and publish my 6K short story Woman in White. This is literary erotica that originally appeared in Maxim Jakubowski’s anthology Sex in the City: New York. I’ve always been fond of this tale about an illegal immigrant who works at a news stand in front of Grand Central Station and the gorgeous professional woman who gets her New York Times and Wall Street Journal from him every day.

When I re-read the story, however, in preparation for new edits, I came away filled with doubt. The problem is, this story does not end well, for either of the main characters. It’s a classic tale of erotic obsession and mistaken intentions. I personally think it’s both arousing and moving, but will my readers care about that? It seems these days people won’t buy something that doesn’t have a happy ending.

Now I’ve lost my confidence. Of course, I can publish it and see how it does, but do I want to put in that effort if it’s just going to fall flat?

So I thought I’d ask you, the readers of my blog. Here’s the first page or so of the tale. What do you think? Would you want to read more, even if you knew there was no HEA?

I’d love to know your opinions.

Woman in White

By Lisabet Sarai

I'm not a stalker. I didn't mean to freak her out. Aie - Dios Mio! The last thing I wanted was to hurt her. I just couldn't help myself. She was my goddess, my dream. My reason for getting up in the morning.

I didn't know her name or where she lived, but still, I knew her. Every day I'd hunker down on my milk crate outside the Graybar entrance to Grand Central, her Times and her Wall Street Journal already set aside and ready. I'd wait for her cheery “Good morning”, delivered in that husky voice that sent shivers down my spine.

“Good morning, miss.” I'd hand her the papers. She'd give me her four bucks and a smile that turned me to jelly, then stride away on her high heels and disappear into the terminal. I'd stuff the bills, still warm from her hand, inside my shirt, as close to my skin as I could get. At night, I'd bring them out, sniffing for a hint of her perfume.

I'd lie on my cot in my cousin's kitchen, gripping my bicho, conjuring her out of the darkness. She usually dressed in white—fitted jackets and straight skirts that were sexy but business-like. In snug clothes like that, someone with her curves should have looked trashy, but somehow she was always elegant and professional. Never mind the gold in her earlobes, the lips painted blood red, the stilettos that had her towering over me as I crouched near the pavement. She had class.

I loved to imagine what she might have on underneath. Smooth silk cradling her swelling breasts, the snowy lace a shocking contrast to her espresso-dark skin. Pale satin hugging that ripe ass and vanishing into the cleft between her thighs. I'd be hard in a minute from the pictures I painted for myself.

Her voice was in my ear, low and raw. "Come on, baby. Give it to me," she'd tease. She would straddle me, tits dangling in my face, brushing her pussy hair over my dick. I'd grab her meaty hips and pull her down onto my rod. Her moans drowned out the traffic, the sirens, the thud of my cousin's bed as he banged his girl in the next room.

It didn't matter how raunchy she talked. She was always a lady, even when I rammed her from behind, making her curse and clench her pussy around my dick. She was my beautiful black queen. She was practically my saint. I worshiped her with my come, pouring it out for her by the gallon. It was the only thing I could give her, aside from her papers and my nervous greeting.

She showed up every work day around eight, more predictable than the sun. Before her arrival, my heart slamming against my ribs, I kept my eyes on the crowded sidewalk, watching for the first glimpse of her curvy form coming up Lexington. After she left, I'd replay the memories: the twinkle in her eyes, her throaty laugh as she bid me good day. Had she been a bit more friendly today? Had she smiled more warmly, lingered a bit longer than usual? She hurried off to what must be some important job, maybe down on Wall Street, leaving me aching but happy.