After Alison posted to the internet a homemade porno of her girlfriend jilling-off to an orgasm, hundreds of women responded asking for help. Who knew so many women don’t know how their lady parts work? They draw up a business plan, and the name of their new enterprise is Come Again. These beautiful women fulfill the American dream: making house calls to teach women how to masturbate.
In ‘China Dragon,’ the team meets its most provocative client: a beautiful and wealthy Asian-American widow with a dark secret—and a smoldering desire for Moriah, the Come Again team’s youngest member.
On the eve of the Civil War, Melanie’s love life sucks, what with her plantation-owning husband away to militia trainings and state’s rights conferences. The house servants are swooning over Big Jim, a black field hand who’s big in every sense. Soon, Melanie’s cornfield trysts are filling her needs—until the Master of Oglethorpe confronts the randy 19-year-old. She confesses, but causes more trouble. “Really, Beau, this ownin’ of other human beings is so…so distasteful. Why not pay them a paltry wage and rent them their hovels?” Outrage! Nearly as outrageous as the hot and humorous ending!
~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~
Following Kay up the walk to the house, I was captivated by her easy stride, her hips moving on their own, as she approached the door. Her sleeveless, red knit mini-dress was clingy, formfitting, a real show stopper. The fishnets were icing on a very hot cake. She’s a big woman—not big that way, just five-foot-eleven big, proportional, full breasts, a woman’s hips and curves.
Two hours into the party, Phil, one of the bassists in the orchestra, sidled up to me. “You’re a gorgeous couple. Cole and Kay. Kay and Cole. Gotta love the alliteration. And Cole and the ice princess, no less.”
What could I do but smile? A player of the lowly trombone, the descendent of the ancient sackbut, hitting it off with a cellist—instrumentalists not known for commingling with the hoi polloi. But not Kay. She had no pretensions of being a soloist. She was just another working stiff in a regional orchestra that almost paid a living salary.
“Can’t comment on her rep as being cool,” I replied. “Jesus, though, she’s hot tonight.”
We had been lovers for months, a known number in the orchestra for nearly that long, and we knew that soon it would be common knowledge that we were moving in together in the fall.
Throughout the evening, an obligatory late summer soiree hosted by the concertmaster, Kay stayed close to me. Her hand often found mine, whether we were together on the couch talking to one of the percussion players or standing in the kitchen with the hostess, admiring the new cabinets. When I glanced at Kay, she’d meet my eyes and show me the tip of her tongue and the hint of a smile.
Chatting with the conductor, wine glasses in hand, my arm went around her, hand resting lightly on her hip. Without missing a beat, her hand found mine and pushed it down to her butt.
Standing behind her as we said our goodbyes, Kay leaned back, her generous curves pressing into my crotch. I know that sounds sluttish, but she did it with discretion and aplomb, all the while complimenting the décor and the host’s hospitality as she induced my erection.
In the car, her face half-lighted by streetlamp, I leaned in to kiss her. As our lips touched, she guided my hand down her side, lifted a haunch and slid it under one of her round cheeks. Like a good writer, she had been showing, not telling: She wanted me to do her in the ass.
Kay was a cellist. Her pedigree included Pablo Casals, Jacqueline du Pré, Mstislav Rostropovich, and Yo-Yo Ma. Like those masters, she exuded class, style and refinement. Kay isn’t a goof like me who makes a living by buzzing his lips and blowing in a brass tube.
Breaking off the kiss, she moved her mouth along my cheek to my ear: “Cole, I want you to do me in the ass.”
Luckily, it was only a ten minute drive to my apartment.
~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~
At six-foot-three, two hundred and thirty pounds, dressed in an Italian suit and custom loafers, Gordon dominated the living room. Sitting in an easy chair next to Junie, he looked around. “You are one of the glummest assemblages of white mother**kers I’ve ever had the misfortune to be with,” he said.
“Thanks for that uplifting greeting,” Junie muttered. “You could’ve just texted your condolences.”
“Woman, I wouldn’t have come over here if all I was going to say is I’m sorry for your pathetic asses.”
“Okay, then why are you here?” Michael asked, bristling. The men despised each other—one, the formerly caged and cuckolded husband, the other the prodigiously endowed lover (and tenured university professor) who had been Junie’s f**k buddy since she was in high school.
“Not to give you any advice, jerk,” Gordon spat. “You people ever hear the phrase, when life gives you lemons, make lemonade?”
Junie rolled her eyes. Melanie, seated next to Michael on the couch, shifted uncomfortably.
“I guess I gotta spell it out for you,” Gordon said, more to himself than the other three people in the living room. “Junie, what is the most important thing in your life? Outside of sleeping and eating?”
She didn’t answer.
“It’s sex. You are the most sexual person I’ve ever met. Even when you’re doing other stuff, Dewey Decimal System stuff, you’re always thinking about sex. Wanting sex. Planning sex. Doing sex.”
“Not in the last few days.”
Gordon made a sour face. “Okay, I really got to spell it out for you. Here’s another question, and I guarantee you it’s not rhetorical. Is there such a thing as bad publicity?”
Junie started to cry.
“Goddam it, Junie, stop that! Listen to me. You’re sitting on a gold mine.”
“What do you mean?” Junie asked between sniffles.
“Well, I mean it figuratively. And literally. You aren’t infamous. You’re famous.”
Michael leaned forward to Junie. “I’m pretty sure, Princess, boyfriend is suggesting you start turning tricks for a living,” he spat. “And I’m sure he’s willing to take a cut.”
“Like just about everything in your miserable life, you got it wrong—dead wrong,” Gordon said. To Junie: “I know people. People who are rich—damn it, rich isn’t the right word. Sports stars. Rappers. Businessmen. Yeah, drug dealers—and I don’t mean street-level. People I grew up with, went to school with. You have no idea how much money they have.”
“So?” Junie asked as she wiped her eyes.
“Damn it, woman, you’re not thinking clear. Remember Robert from Atlanta? My Morehouse buddy? That weekend we spent at my place?”
Junie nodded. It had been her first threesome in several years. After two days of nearly nonstop sex, she had left Gordon’s apartment bruised and happy.
“His brother plays for the Sea Hawks. He has a thirty million dollar contract.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Listen, Junie. These men…they have wives, they have girlfriends. You know what? Wives and girlfriends are a pain in the ass. Not in the mood. I’ve got a headache. You forgot my birthday. Pain in the ass. So when they want sex, just sex, just to have a good time… Am I getting through?”
“They hire a hooker?”
Gordon slapped his forehead. “They don’t hire a hooker. Okay, there’s a word. ‘Escort.’ A beautiful woman, fun to be with, a perfect date—and very, very skilled at sex. The whole package.”
“How do you break in?” Michael asked.
“Sounds like I’m getting through to someone, finally. It’s not easy. You could do some research, find one of those high-priced Manhattan or Hollywood escort services. Remember that governor of New York? He paid, like, thirty-five hundred a night? But that escort had to split her fee with her madam.
“The best, absolute best way to get into high-end escorting is to freelance,” Gordon continued. He leaned forward, gesturing, intense, his eyes blazing. “It’s also the hardest. You’ve got to be a known entity. Someone with a verified skill set. And you’re over that hurdle.”
“‘Chief librarian offers extended services’?” Michael asked.
“Yes! Goddamn, my phone is going nuts! Junie, all these guys I’ve known for years. I’ve told them about you. You’ve met some of them and slept with at least one. They want to do you! In the nicest possible way! They read those articles and get hard!”
“I should…should…become a prostitute?”
“Think of it as—the entertainment business. Something that you give your all to, which is your style. And not just you. Girlfriend here, too.”
Melanie blinked. “Me?”
“You’re a perfect match, salt and pepper,” Gordon explained. “Junie’s all sexual energy, crazy sex-fiend stuff. She’s a small package that just explodes. Melanie, you’re softer, more innocent. And your body and those boobs…You two make an incredible package. And there’s a big marketing advantage to that, especially with the really high-end customers.”
“Why?” Michael asked.
“It doubles the kink, so you can double the fee. Trust me on this: Nothing, absolutely nothing turns a guy on more than watching two hot women do it. Since you’re already lesbians, so much the better. Only thing, you’ll have to shorten it up, time-wise. Lesbians go on forever.”
Melanie blushed and mouthed to herself, “Am not a lesbian.”
“Oh, god! See what I mean! She’s priceless!”
~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~
A peal of ear-splitting thunder echoed throughout the room. The atmosphere felt charged as the sky opened up and heavy splats of rain fell on the stones of the patio outside the glass doors.
Our eyes locked. I moved toward Moriah and ran my finger down her cheek and on to her lips. Her mouth opened and she sucked my finger, twirling her tongue around it.
I slipped a cuff on each wrist and raised her arms. She was just short enough that her hands didn’t reach the ceiling. I ran the rope through the hook and pulled it taut. She stood almost in the middle of the room, her arms stretched high, standing almost on tiptoe.
“What are you going to do to me?” she whispered.
I stood behind her as I made a knot on the hook and lowered my mouth to her ear. “Give me a safe word. Give me a word that, when you say it, I’ll stop whatever I’m doing and let you go.”
“No, I want you to be able to say ‘stop’ without really meaning it. Something else.”
Her hands now secured above her head, I walked in front of her. Reaching down, I rolled her cotton ribbed sweater up above her breasts, revealing a pretty lace bra. Her eyes widened. The rain was coming down hard, and the room darkened from the storm clouds.
I undid the button on her jeans, slowly lowered the zipper, and pulled her pants down toward her knees. She shook one foot, then the other, sending her slip-ons across the room.
I pulled her jeans off her. All that was left were her bra, panties and socks. And her sweater scrunched up to her chin above her small breasts.
Moriah had a look of wild passion in her eyes as she watched my every move. I left her there and looked around the room for some inspiration.
In the corner were my walking sticks, high-tech poles make of carbon fiber, with rubber-coated tips and leather-wrapped handles with loops that secured them to your wrists while hiking. I picked one up and walked back to Moriah.
She licked her dry lips.
Lightning flashed, followed quickly by the crash of thunder. The fresh smell of ozone filled the air. The excitement was palpable. The atmosphere was charged with electricity, both literal and metaphorical.