Disciple #FlashFiction #Spirituality #Sex

“Uh—oh—oh—uh—uh—uh, uh, uh—ah—yes, oh, yes, uh—aaah!”

“You all right, honey?”

“Oh...oh, yeah, I’m fantastic. Just need a bit of time to recover. Thanks, Miriam. That was sensational—as always. You’re still the best, after all this time.”

“That’s sweet of you, Sh’muel. We each serve according to our separate gifts.”

“He say that?”

“More or less.”

“You knew him, didn’t you.”

“Very well. Intimately, you might say.”

“So...what was he like? Putting aside the hype and all? How did it feel when you were with him?”

“Cherished. Beloved. Enveloped in warm, nurturing light.”

“You were special to him.”

“Everyone felt that way, Sh'muel. That was his gift. Total, unconditional love. Perfect compassion. It didn’t matter who you were, what you did for a living, what country you came from or what gods you worshiped. What so-called sins you had committed. He loved us all. We couldn’t help loving him back.”

“Even Judas Iscariot?”

“Of course. Poor Judas might have loved him more than anyone. Most of us were too selfish to fulfill the master’s will. We wanted to keep him alive, with us, so we could continue to bask in his incredible light. Even if that undermined his ultimate purpose.” 

 

“It must have been hard to let him go.”

“Torture. I wept non-stop for two weeks. It felt like my heart had been torn from my body, leaving nothing but a vacant, echoing gap. I wanted to kill myself, to tell you the truth, but I knew he wouldn’t approve. It took a long time before I understood that he really wasn’t gone at all. That his light could never be extinguished—unless I allowed it to be.”

“I’m—um—kind of surprised you went back to your old profession. Afterwards, I mean.”

“His mother never liked me. She never felt I was good enough for her precious Yeshua. I don’t blame her. We all have our flaws, our blind spots. Anyway, I didn’t feel comfortable with the direction the disciples were taking. Celibacy just doesn’t suit me.”

“I’m grateful for that!”

“I’ll bet you are, you old goat!”

“So, tell me Miriam—what about the sex? Was it different? Better than with an ordinary man?”

“You want me to kiss and tell? Naughty boy! I keep your secrets—I’ll certainly keep his. But I will say this—he was as lusty and eager as anyone else. Not the pale, emasculated, passionless figure that some of the communities worship these days. He was flesh and blood, full of juice and joy.”

“So what do you think? Was he really the Messiah?”

“You know, Sh'muel, I don’t really care. All I know is that everyone he touched was changed for the better. His love kindled ours. We wanted to please him, honor him, and so we tried, in our own poor imperfect way, to be like him. Each according to our gifts. Speaking of which...”

“Mmm—oh, that feels so good!”

“Looks like you’re ready for another round.”

“Oh—ah—oh, God, I’d love to, but until next month’s harvest, I don’t have the shekels to spare.”

“It’s on the house, honey. Because you’re such a loyal customer and such a sweet guy.”

“Ooh—oh, Miriam! You’re a saint... What can I do in return? Can I give one of next spring’s lambs?”

“Just feel my love, Sh'muel. Feel it, and pass it on.”

The Romance of the One Night Stand - #ValentinesDay #Transience #Revelations

 Image by Robert Pastryk from Pixabay

After a solid week of roses and candy, hearts and flowers, I'm just starting to recover from Valentine's Day. When you write erotic romance as I do, you are more or less required to participate in the romantic frenzy. Every email I sent out to readers, every promotional message or invitation to my blog ended with the obligatory “Have a Happy Valentine's Day”. Every day I received notices of Valentine's release parties, Valentine's chats, Valentine's treasure hunts, special Valentine's prices, et cetera.

I'm exhausted. Not that I have anything against Cupid's Day, mind you. I enjoy a candle light dinner, a glass of wine, and the intimate aftermath as much as anyone. It's just that my notions about romance aren't exactly conventional. For example, in contrast to the Happily Ever After crowd, I tend to find one night stands deeply romantic.

I'm not talking about Erica Jong's zipless fuck here, a chance conjunction of bodies with physical pleasure, and perhaps the shattering of conventions, as its primary goal. I'm talking about the sense of erotic connection I've sometimes experienced in the arms of a stranger. The one night stands that live in my memory had a sense of rightness that amplified every sensation. Two individuals blundering through life, we collided by chance, and for a brief, beautiful time, we became one creature. Bound by lust, and perhaps loneliness, together we lit up the night.

Traditional romance celebrates the concept of soul mates. Some of the lovers who shared my bed just once seemed to know me so well, I was almost ready to believe in that sort of destiny. At the same time, bittersweet regret always lingered in the background, the specter of inevitable parting. The shadow of pending farewell threw the immediate pleasure and joy into sharp relief.

For me, one night stands are erotic exactly because they don't last forever. The transience heightens the intensity. Rationally, I understand that the magical feeling of connection may be an illusion. Relationships based on chemistry alone rarely survive. What if I'm not deluding myself, though? What if this man really was “the one”? How deliciously tragic to know that we'll go our separate ways! And how sweet to imagine an alternate, impossible future, a future of endless nights, equally incandescent. The fantasy thrills me exactly because I know it will never be fulfilled.

No wonder I have such trouble adjusting to the tropes of romance .

I've tried to capture the eroticism and transcendence of one night stands in some of my short stories (though reviewing my back list, I'm somewhat disappointed to realize how few). Perhaps the purest expression can be found in “Shades of Red”, currently out of print. (I should do something about that!) A young woman, fascinated by the red light district in Amsterdam, rents a window for herself. A stranger engages her services, seeking the discipline her costume seems to promise, and she discovers that indeed she does have a talent for dominance. The bond they share as she beats him is not at all what she expected.

***

He's shy and grateful afterward. I sit in the armchair, watching him as he dresses. He's definitely a handsome man. When he pulls his wallet from his pocket and tries to give me a hundred euros, I shake my head.

"Thirty. That's what we agreed."

"But you gave me so much – just what I needed."

"Never mind. Business is business."

"Please..."

"I said no. Are you going to start disobeying me?"

He smiles, puts most of the money away, and presses a ten and a twenty into my hand. "Thank you. Thank you so much." For a moment I think he's going to kiss me. I wish that he would. But that moment passes. He reaches for the door, squeezes past me in the crowded room and is gone, into the night.

I lean back in my hired chair staring at the bills in my hand. I'm sweaty. My hair has come loose from the clip and is tangled down my back. My arms ache.

When I unlace my corset, my breasts tumble out, the nipples as hard and sensitive as ever. I unsnap the leather panties, drenched and stained from my juices. They make a sticky noise as I pull them away from my pussy. The ripe smell of cunt rises, mingling with the bitter scent of semen. I reach for the vibrator, conveniently to hand in the tiny room. The cool stainless steel cylinder slides deliciously into my swollen cleft. I flip the switch to high and writhe helplessly as the vibrations trigger one ragged, ecstatic climax after another.

Epiphanies? Revelations? I don't think he'll forget this night. As for me, I know that the memory of his red-streaked buttocks and tear-stained face, my power and his surrender, will fuel intense orgasms long into the future.

I still feel high as I lock my door behind me and step into the street. I'm naked under my coat. Every sensation is frighteningly acute. A random breeze plays in my damp, bare sex. The smell of spilled beer mingles with the tang of autumn leaves.

The alleys are still crowded. I hear snatches of conversation in a dozen languages, riffs of jazz and rock and roll. I sense the beat of the men's hearts as they congregate around some red-lit rectangle of glass.

A lithe male figure in a turtleneck brushes past me and my breath catches in my throat. Images flood my mind, images of pale, pliant flesh, offering itself to me.

It occurs to me, as I make my way back to my five star hotel and my ordinary life, that perhaps I am the one who was marked this night.

***

I defy you to tell me that's not romantic.

Now available for pre-order! Cherry Pie and Mistletoe - #MatureRomance #HolidayRomance #SeniorSex

Happy Sunday! I hope your holiday season so far has been full of love, peace and joy.

To help get you in the mood for Christmas, I’ve written a brand new holiday erotic romance story. Cherry Pie and Mistletoe will release next Friday, December 13^th. You can order your copy from Smashwords now (and hopefully from Amazon within the next day or so!)

Here’s the blurb. I guarantee this story will warm your heart.

Cherry Pie and Mistletoe: A Mature Holiday Romance

Some Christmas traditions improve with age.

At ten thirty on a stormy Christmas Eve, I really didn’t expect any business, but the sign for our diner out on the highway reads “open until midnight”, and I’m a woman of my word. Good thing I didn’t close; the half-frozen long haul trucker who wandered in really needed some hot coffee, not to mention a slice of my luscious cherry pie.

Something about the grizzled, bear-like man with the chocolate-brown eyes and ready laugh spun me back to my scandalous, sensual younger days. I hadn’t wanted anyone in years, but I wanted Dave Driver. Was I brave enough to act on my desire? And would he flee, screaming, from the amorous attentions of a white-haired little old lady?

Preorder from Smashwords – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/993385

Other outlets available soon!

Exclusive Excerpt

I tried without success to concentrate on the exquisite taste of the dessert in front of me, as Dave seemed to be doing. Instead, I was intensely aware of how close he was—and how paradoxically attractive. I watched his sensual mouth opening and closing around forkfuls of pie, the flick of his tongue over his lips as he gathered stray crumbs, the shift in his throat as he swallowed a mouthful of coffee.

He drained his coffee cup. He’d nearly finished. When he was done, he’d disappear into the winter night. He had a long way to travel before morning. His job probably depended on providing a reliable delivery schedule.

I was just a stop along the way.

I cleared my throat. “It must be hard being away from your family on Christmas,” I commented.

He glanced up from his almost empty plate. “Don’t have any family to speak of,” he said. “Just a son, living near Seattle. And we’ve never been close.”

“What about your wife?” There, I’d asked.

His face clouded. “Ellen’s been gone for seven years already.”

“Oh—I’m so sorry!” Now I felt guilty. I should have kept my mouth shut.

Dave shrugged. “That’s okay. She was sick for quite a while. Now I guess she’s at peace. And I’ve moved on. Sold the farm, bought the truck—life’s about change, Marnie. Nothing lasts forever.”

I thought about my own life, full of adventure by most people’s standards. The years in Paris, in the Caribbean, in Bangkok and in Greece, making art and making love. The parties, and the epiphanies. Yet here I was, back where I started.

“Sometimes I think it’s all cycles,” I said. “I spent four decades traveling the world, living in all sort of exotic places. Then my dad became ill and couldn’t handle the diner, so I came home—to the only real home I’ve ever had.”

“The diner’s yours?” Dave chuckled. “And here I thought you were just an abused employee, forced to work on the holiday!”

“No, I gave Hank and Jeannie—the cook and the waitress—the night off. Figured they’ve got families, and I—well, anyway, the Algonquin’s mine now, though I don’t know how much longer I can keep it going. Mom and Dad opened the place before I was born, when Route 6 was a major artery. Now, with the Interstate…”

Tears gathered in my eyes. Damn, I thought. I do not want this guy’s sympathy.

“People’re always gonna need a place to get a cup of coffee.” His voice was so quiet I could hear the sleet hissing against the window-glass. “And you should advertise this pie! Get it up on Facebook, or TripAdvisor, or whatever.”

“Probably should.” I gathered our plates, empty but for a few crimson smears, and dumped them in the sink. I’d wash up after he left. “But I’m not sure I’ve got the energy, to be honest.”

He nodded. “Yeah, at our age, we have to choose the things that matter…” He trailed off into silence. I wondered what—or who—occupied his thoughts.

Elbows on the counter, I shifted closer, losing myself again in his warm, gold-flecked gaze. Now is what matters, I wanted to tell him. We might never have another chance.

Of course, I kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t as bold as I used to be.

Coming December 13^th!

Joy is a signal you can trust - #epiphany #fun #intuition #joy

 Image by Artturi Mäntysaari from Pixabay

A few months ago, I had an “aha!” moment. I’d been feeling terribly stressed due to increased demands at my job and my author commitments, plus some impending travel that was going to make it even the more difficult to fulfill my obligations. I was obsessing about everything, when it hit me: even though I have way too much to do, I enjoy almost all of the tasks on my long list —writing, teaching, research, making covers, reading, writing reviews, creating blog posts, entertaining friends, sending birthday cards, cooking, even exercising. When I asked myself what I’d give up, if I had to make a choice, I really didn’t have a good answer.

That realization flipped my thinking and drained some of the stress. First, I felt a surge of gratitude that my life is so full of meaningful activity and so rich in joy. Second, I understood that joy is a reliable signal as to whether you’re on the right path.

If it’s not fun, you’re doing it wrong.

Am I talking about sex? Yes. Writing? Yes. Keeping fit? That too.

The Calvinistic/Puritan tradition views life as bitter and hard, an exercise in self-denial, a continuous series of trials one must endure in order to reach the promise of Paradise in the hereafter. I just don’t buy that. It doesn’t make sense, and it doesn’t match my personal experience.

For me, life is something to celebrate, a continuous unfolding, a twisting and often surprising path. And when I’m wondering which branch to follow, I’ve learned to turn within first, to ask myself how the path feels. Does it feel right? Does it generate joy?

I remember when I got my first job in my second career. (I’ve had several since.) I had no prior professional experience in this field, just a couple of university courses. I got hired on the strength of my academic credentials. When I started working, though, something clicked. I really “got” the concepts. I found I had an aptitude that I would not have expected. The job tapped into my creativity and developed my interpersonal skills. It was definitely the right path at that time.

When I met my husband (at a technical conference), I tried to give him the brush-off. We lived on different coasts and I didn’t want a long-distance relationship. Besides, I was already juggling four lovers. When he persisted, however, I discovered that being with him felt inexplicably comfortable. We spent the first three weeks of our life together driving across the US, a trip that could strain even a well-established couple. We had a fantastic time—and despite the newness of our relationship, the whole process turned out to be incredibly easy and natural.

Thirty nine years later, I understand: it was so much fun because we were obviously doing it right.

Note that joy is not exactly the same as happiness. It’s not about pleasure or entertainment. Joy is something deeper, a spiritual quality, a sense of satisfaction, order and symmetry. Sometimes it’s a quiet, soothing warmth humming under your solar plexus. Sometimes it’s laughter bubbling up out of nowhere, an urge to sing or to dance. Joy can be wordless, or it can spill out in poetry or paint.

I believe we are meant to feel joy and that when we do, we can trust we’re being our best and truest selves.

The fact that something kindles your joy doesn't mean it will be easy. Climbing a mountain, running a marathon, getting a degree, raising a child, or writing a book all take a huge amount of effort, but joy is the ultimate reward. And of course every life has its pain and its tragedies. But joy makes you more resilient.

Writing can be tough, frustrating work. We all complain when the words don’t flow or the characters don’t obey. We fight with incompetent editors, flinch at poor reviews, feel discouraged when our royalties don’t even begin to reach the level of minimum wage. In the face of all these negatives, why do we—why do I—keep writing? Out of love. Because of the joy.

Almost nothing compares to the sense of delight when I am in the groove, the words are flowing and the story is unfolding just as I’d imagined. It’s worth every bit of aggravation and every ounce of effort.

At least that’s how I feel. Your mileage may differ. But if you are truly suffering for your art, why bother? If what you're doing doesn't fundamentally satisfy you, give you that deep level feeling of rightness, maybe you are doing the wrong thing.

Not that I’m counseling my fellow authors to give up. Just stop and ask yourself: is it fun? And if not, what can you change so that it will be? 

For another take on this same topic, check out excellent Nicole Tierra's article on trusting your intuition: https://lifeclub.org/idea/intuition-trust-your-gut

I think she and I are saying the same thing, in slightly different ways.

  

 

Working a Book Scene - #AfricanAmericanromance #Blackwomenauthors #readingblack @LaylaWritesLove

By Lyndell Williams (Guest Blogger)

Original post: Layla Writes Love

Scene troubles may involve persistent issues with the plot's structure, or they may be thematic and restricted to one manuscript.

Author Achilles Heels

Narrative building in genre fiction is more than writing words. Generating a story idea and its execution involves applying numerous literary tools, following conventions (which differs between genres), and knowing when to break them. Some plot points may be easier for authors to draft.

A writer may fly through the beginning of the plot structure only to consistently stall in the middle. A weak middle can cause some execution stress when writing chapters and scenes. It's called sagging middle syndrome for a reason. Tension building can be arduous and traumatic, which is not good. The characters should be getting all flustered from drama, not the author.

Giving characters a satisfying resolution may be a problem in every project. Characters achieving their story's goal is only part of providing a gratifying end. I often read authors expressing that they don't want the story to end because they are so in love with the characters. The infatuation is sweet and common, but come on. Readers want an ending scene where those lovable protagonists find some level of equilibrium and contentment (or not), and antagonists get their comeuppance. It is the stuff that makes storytelling great.

Authors may have no trouble with the mayhem and solutions. For them, reaching the inciting incident and climax is a problem. Exposition is critical to grabbing readers and getting them vested in the characters. The opening scene needs to have a balance of description, characterization, and exposition that pulls readers in and hooks them into turning those pages or swiping that screen—not an easy feat.

Theme Issues

There are millions of journals and computer files with story ideas left unfinished for want of a scene that eludes or traps an author. The characters of my first (attempt at a) story are still in a damn hotel room. I tried to get them out, but no. They are just sitting there.

Maybe I will liberate them one day. Today is not that day. Authors get stuck in a scene for many reasons. Part of a story may not be flowing. The execution—getting the characters to do and say what you want—could be off. The scene's subject may be difficult to address.

Love scenes baffle a lot of writers, mainly the level of intimacy and description. My readers know I have no problem with turning up the heat.—

If the content is new or something that makes a writer uncomfortable (i.e., violence, abuse, etc.), it will affect the ability to write a scene. I had the hardest time with a domestic abuse scene in one of the Brothers in Law manuscripts. I was a little too comfortable describing the violence and heartache from the victim's point of view. I kept reining myself in for fear of being too graphic, and my writing faltered as I struggled between what I expected readers to handle and the character's experience.

I also had to tackle with my visceral responses to the pain and trauma. Scenes involving Toni and Marcus Kent’s struggle with infertility in my new release, Sweet Love, Bitter Fruit were very challenging, especially when Marcus had to carry Toni into the emergency room after a bad reaction to the in vitro medication. I shared his heartbreak. Check out an excerpt of the scene below.

If an author doesn't have any while they are writing, then there is something wrong. On top of the mental blocks I set up, I had to contend with shaky hands and a racing heart.

Struggling with scene content is more than writer's block. The writer may know what to write—the words and tools are all there—but the emotional toll may prevent completion. Talking it out and recognizing the reason that the keyboard remains silent for a particular scene helps.

Story writing is ripe with challenges, but none of them are insurmountable. So, stretch, grab a water bottle and dig in to give readers one.

Sweet Love, Bitter Fruit

By Lyndell Williams

Available at Amazon

Blurb

Harlem lawyer Marcus Kent fights for justice while preserving a stable, passionate marriage with wife, Toni. Smart and confident, he has it all together—that is until his world turns upside down.

Not only is someone stalking his sister, but an intern at work is also getting too close for comfort.

On top of all of that, Toni’s renewed infertility obsession causes them to continually argue, adding more strain and cooling off their steamy union.

Struggling with insecurities and yearning to have a child, successful psychologist Toni Kent looks to her husband for support. Unfortunately, relentless distraction and stubbornness prevent Marcus from being there when she needs him the most and jeopardizes their happy home.

After multiple failed in vitro attempts, Toni is ready to try again, but Marcus is done. He doesn’t want another headache or more heartache.

Excerpt

"Hi"—Marcus hovered over the nurse panting—“my wife is very sick,” he said over the sound of gurneys rushing behind him. He tightened his grip around Toni’s waist, his muscles burning as he strained to keep her from crumpling to the floor. He hefted her up further against his body, her head rolling against his chest. The emergency room sliding doors ground closed, drowning out her soft moan. “It’s gonna be okay, Sweetness.” He barely got the words out of his closed throat. They hadn’t been okay since the morning.

Toni had begun the day getting out of the bed and vomiting. He went for his run and returned to sounds of her retching over the toilet. She assured him it was a passing thing and insisted that he go to work. Her clammy skin and cold hands told him otherwise, but he left and spent the morning worrying and blowing up her phone. When she hadn’t answered a string of calls, he headed home and found her lying on the bathroom floor.

Her arms fell away from his neck and her body started jerking. “Oh, no,” he groaned. She couldn’t possibly be vomiting again. He pushed back the wet tendrils from her forehead and cupped her chin. Her mouth opened, releasing a rancid smell that reminded him of putrid meat. The drugs were rotting her away from the inside. He met the nurse’s stoic gaze. “Please, help her. She’s on fertility medication.”

“All right, just calm down.” She passed him a clipboard. A blank stare fixed behind her leopard print glasses, red lipstick on her thin lips made a thin line across her pale face. “Have a seat and fill these out.” She turned in her chair and started talking to the security guard standing over her.

He took it, resisting the urge to hurl it across the room, and struggled with Toni along a row of vinyl seats, mumbling “excuse me” as they bumped their way through outstretched legs. The scent of tobacco, alcohol and vomit sent his stomach reeling. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to be throwing up next. He flopped down and tugged her pants up her hips before pulling her onto his lap. There was nothing left that really fit her after weeks of weight loss. “I got you,” he grunted and shifted on the padded seat. The corner of the chair’s arm dug into the elbow he propped on it for support. He widened his legs and sank into the chair. Her staggering breath rushed against his neck. His head throbbed in rhythm with his pounding heart. Things were the worst they had ever been.

Get a copy of Sweet Love–Bitter Fruit at Amazon.

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From a Distance - #Retrospection #Spirituality #Compassion

From a distance you look like my friend
Even though we are at war
From a distance I just cannot comprehend
What all this fighting’s for....

~ Bette Midler, “From a Distance”

Just before I entered my senior year in high school, humans walked on the moon for the first time. With my long-time love of both science and science fiction, I was jubilant. The stars beckoned. Anything was possible.

Only months later, the Ohio National Guard fatally shot four Kent State University students protesting the Vietnam war.

Looking back, I cannot recall how I reconciled the elation and the horror stemming from these two events, though I know both affected me deeply.

We believed, back then, in the inevitable revolution. Things would never be the same. “The time’s they are a-changing,” Dylan sang, and we believed. We looked to a new world of love and peace, freedom and justice and moral responsibility. The Age of Aquarius.

Things didn’t quite turn out that way.

Well, the times did change. They always do. We impeached a president. We waited in long lines for rationed gas. We danced to Saturday Night Fever. We watched the stock market crash, rise and crash again.

Hijacked planes toppled the twin towers and claimed three thousand lives. Nightmare waves scoured the coasts of the Indian Ocean, killing two hundred thousand. Having finally quit the jungles of Vietnam, U.S. soldiers occupied the deserts of Iraq and Afghanistan.

We elected a black man to the Oval Office—twice. We cloned sheep, transplanted hearts, sequenced our own DNA and that of our animal cousins. We haven’t walked on Mars yet, but our robots have. We know there’s certainly water on the Red Planet, and probably some form of life.

My siblings had kids, who grew up, graduated high school, went to college. My parents left the earth, after bountiful lives no one could call short. A dear friend succumbed to ovarian cancer at fifty two. Two of my former lovers committed suicide.

Technology followed the science fiction of my youth. Computers shrank to the size of match boxes. It became more and more difficult to distinguish fact from deliberate fabrication.

My spirituality is eclectic, but I do believe the Buddha’s teaching that everything is transient. Suffering derives from attachment, the attempt to resist changing circumstances.

Through the distance of six and a half decades, I find comfort in the constant cycles of change. No matter how horrible things appear right now, they’ll be different tomorrow, or next week, or next year. Of course this also means more hard times may be coming, but they will eventually fade away as well.

The only reality (again according to the Buddha), the key to breaking the chains of illusion, is compassion. That’s my focus now, in these latter days of my life. I am trying to release the hate and anger stirred up so effectively by today’s media. I don’t want to sweat the small stuff, but to do justice and love kindness and refrain from judgment if I can. I am trying, with mixed success, to be a center of peace, radiating to those around me.

Really, that seems to be the only option.

To quote Paul McCartney, another prophet from my youth:

And in the end

the love you take

is equal to the love

you make.

A Sexy Valentine's Treat - #menage #lesbian #bisexual #friendswap

 

It’s finally Valentine’s Day! And I’ve got a brand new release to celebrate. Book 4 of my Vegas Babes series is out today. Valentine’sVisit is romantic bisexual ménage erotica, with lots of sex, but plenty of love, too.

Leave me a comment and I’ll enter you into a drawing to win a free copy.

Blurb

Jake and Fran and Ted and Annie celebrate Valentine’s Day—Vegas style!

When Jake and Fran are invited to Las Vegas spend Valentine’s weekend with Jake’s old friend Ted and his curvaceous ginger-haired wife, they’re not sure what to expect. The last time they saw Ted and Annie, at the Vegas couple’s pre-wedding stag party, the four of them had ended up in bed together. But maybe that was just a fluke. There’s only one way to find out.

Since their wedding, Annie and Ted have acquired some new kinks and a good deal more erotic experience. Annie has discovered she likes strap-ons and a bit of domination. Ted has been forced to recognize he’s into guys as well as women.

Will Annie’s double dildo scare Fran away? Will Jake balk at getting intimate with Ted? Only Cupid knows!

Exclusive Excerpt (Rated X)

He collapsed on top of her, smearing his jizz between them. Franny clasped her arms around his back and pulled him closer. God, she loved him!

Jake raised his head to gaze into her eyes. “You’re really something, Fran.”

“Likewise,” she replied with a grin. “Thank you.”

“I was just going to say that to you.” He crawled up her body to fasten his mouth on hers. She was amused to note that the passionate kiss caused his cock to stir and swell yet again.

“Guess we both need another shower,” he said, gazing ruefully as his sticky skin. “And I’d better put in a call to Dale at the restaurant, let him know I’ll be late.”

“Why not tell him you’re taking the rest of the day off?” Fran sat up and ran her fingers through her dark curls. The room was theirs until tomorrow. And she certainly didn’t feel like returning to her computer and the tricky page layout that had consumed her morning. Especially when that would require her to trudge through the sleet then spend five stops crammed into the train.

“But your father—”

“Dad is very impressed by your performance. He told me so last week. Profit is up, complaints are down—you’re a natural manager.” She scrambled over to pull him into a hug, rubbing her rigid nipples against his chest. She knew that drove him wild.

“Franny!” Jake tried unsuccessfully to escape from her embrace.

“What?”

“You’re insatiable.”

She reached between them to stroke his mostly hard dick. “And you’re not?”

“It’s your fault.”

“Oh, is that so—?” A chirp from her phone interrupted her. With a frown, she grabbed it off the dresser, expecting a text from her boss. She was pleasantly surprised.

“It’s from Annie!”

“Ted’s Annie?” Jake licked his lips. Franny knew what he was thinking. They hadn’t seen his best friend and his delectable ginger-haired wife since the couple’s wild wedding the previous summer

 

Fran blushed, remembering the shenanigans that had gone on at their co-ed stag party, especially the foursome she and Jake had shared with the soon-to-be-wedded pair. Making love to Annie while Ted had plowed Fran’s rear hole and Jake had taken Annie’s—that had to be one of the most erotic experiences of her young but active life.

“Of course.” She read further. “Oh! They’re inviting us to come visit over Valentine’s weekend. They’ve got a new, two bedroom apartment. They want us to stay with them.”

“Go to Vegas? But what about work?” Jake shook his head. “I’m still trying to prove myself to your father.”

Fran settled her hands on her full hips and glared at her husband. “I told you, that’s not a problem. Dale can handle the restaurant for a few days. You told me you’ve been grooming him to take over another branch.”

“But—” Jake shrugged, looking helpless.

“Don’t you want to see them?” She stepped nearer, then sank to her knees on the carpet in front of him. His dick surged at her closeness. She stuck out her tongue to gather a drop of pre-cum welling from the tip. “Gorgeous Annie? And your best friend Ted?” Pursing her lips around the bulb, she sucked gently. “Don’t you want to fuck them?”

“Oh!—c’mon, Fran—that might have been just a fluke. We shouldn’t assume— ”

“Annie says they’re having a Valentine’s party Saturday night. And that they want us to meet their friends.” Fran paused to swallow his erection and run her tongue up and down the taut length. He tasted like pussy. That just reminded her of eating Annie. She had to convince her reluctant spouse. “Her emoticon is definitely a leer.”

Buy Links

Kinky Literature – https://www.kinkyliterature.com/book/4089-valentines-visit-fourway-friend-swap--vegas-babes-book-4/

Amazon US – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07NLBXZK5

Amazon UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07NLBXZK5

Smashwords – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/922797

Barnes and Noble – https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1130554745?ean=2940155973508

Add on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/43969420-valentine-s-visit

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