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Kay begged Cole to touch her “there.” But playing in that part of the woods has a price, he warned his new lover. “There’s a power shift. For the bottom, it’s humiliation, surrender, loss of control.” Though not sure she understood—and not caring—Kay eagerly submitted. When he took her, Cole commanded her to bark like a dog (and she did!). Then the tables turned: Cole agreed to let Kay take him, although it takes a trip to their local sex toy shop for the right gear. Cole thinks he knows about the power shift. But it’s different when a woman is in control.

~~~~~  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.

After taking seven horny steelworkers on a busted pool table, Alison was ready for something different. She pulled a mashed-up business card out of her purse, the one that she got from the cop she seduced a couple of weeks before. She was a cute female cop who had pulled her over on the interstate just as Alison was about to climax, thanks to her remote-controlled vibrator. The seduction was in an interstate motel—and it was the best sex she had ever had. Now, Alison wanted that sexy cop again. She made the call, and Alison’s new affair kicked off with a long weekend of sex—in a movie theater ladies room, in Alison’s bedroom, in a grocery store, at the mall, with a three-way with another gorgeous woman … you get the idea. Lip Service is 15,000 words of explicit, panty-wetting, woman-on-woman erotica that you won’t forget.

~~~~~  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.”

“‘Stop?’”

“No, I want you to be able to say ‘stop’ without really meaning it. Something else.”

“Calliope.”

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.

In Book 5 of Junie Makes Michael, disaster strikes: Junie’s sexual hijinks land her in trouble with the law—she makes headlines and loses her job. What’s a girl to do? Rather than sit on her rear end, Junie decides to sell it, along with the rear end of her live-in girlfriend Melanie. The notoriety of her arrest catapults her into the upper echelons of high-end escorting, where her sexual adventures include a lesbian sex show with Melanie, sex on (not in) a luxury British car, and a three-way in a private jet at forty thousand feet.

~~~~~  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!”

In this sequel to Making Michael Obey, marital bliss had ended for newlyweds Junie and Michael only six months into their marriage—his interest in lovemaking had waned. Junie discovered her husband is more interested in pleasuring himself than making love to her. Her healthy libido wouldn’t stand for second place, and she delivered an ultimatum. Michael, seeing the error of his ways, submitted—and he agreed to wear a locked acrylic device 24/7. Junie has taken complete control of their love life—and discovers she needs more than what Michael can deliver, even after she unlocks the cage.

~~~~~  Excerpt  ~~~~~

“You’re utterly submissive to me now,” Junie said to me. “It’s miraculous. I can really see the changes that chastity has brought. Six months ago, you were this phony image of a man, a successful guy with a beautiful wife. But secretly you were pleasuring yourself in a dark corner, and your woman only served as your receptacle when you were in the mood for real sex.

“Now, you’re mine. You’re absolutely nothing, but you’re all mine. You don’t make love, you don’t touch yourself. You cook, you clean, you fawn over me, you jump two inches off the floor if I look at you cross-eyed.

“You’ve gotten more sensitive, too,” she added. “You’re gentler, more attentive to me. Your lovemaking is absolutely divine. It’s like you consume me with your mouth.”

“Princess,” I added eagerly, “my senses are so much sharper.”

“See? Isn’t that wonderful? That’s what chastity has done for us. That’s why I’m going to keep you chaste. Right, Michael?”

“Yes, Princess. Absolutely. I’m so much happier. It’s just that today…”

“Never mind that. Something else you need to know. Your look of need and desperation enthralls me. I want more. I want more of looking down and seeing you kneeling between my legs, your entire being concentrated on only pleasing me."

Remy reads the demand letter from her ex’s lawyer saying she owes more money, and she’s fuming. Then she hears an ad on the radio: “Screwed by the legal profession? Does the legal profession owe you one? If the answer is yes, you may qualify for a new and free legal service.” Later that day, the young beauty is strapped to a chair, nude and ready for a bizarre and erotic examination by 5 lawyers, a demented, over-endowed dwarf, and an audience of law students. Remy’s ex is claiming she’s frigid. This nude deposition will prove she’s not.

~~~~~  Excerpt  ~~~~~

“She’s climbing,” Professor Slutz said, her eyes glued to the monitor. “Approaching seven hundred Kinseys.”

“Let me know the moment she stabilizes,” Professor Balzac said as he humped inside Remy. One hand gripped Remy’s hip, while the thumb of his other hand gently massaged her.

“Six-eighty-five, six-ninety, six-ninety, six-ninety….”

“Dammit, woman, I said tell me …”

“She’s steady at six-ninety-five. What next?”

“We don’t have a case unless she climbs to seven fifty,” Professor Balzac muttered. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he quickened his pace. “Let’s go into full deposition mode.”

After a nod from Professor Slutz, the interns jabbed buttons and threw switches. The lights came up, and the large conference table lowered into the floor. The ceiling panels drew back, revealing a sea of faces in a circular balcony surrounding the room.

The conference room had transformed into a large, high-tech surgical theater filled with students peering down at Remy, strapped into her chair, and Professor Balzac humping maniacally. Below, nearly a dozen interns, lawyers and technicians milled about the operating theater.

 Alison’s night of mindless lust with her girlfriend in a bar where she once “entertained” seven guys on a busted pool table goes belly-up. The girlfriend is late, and Tommy (an old friend with benefits) walks in with four auto execs. He had hired a duo to entertain them, but they're no-shows. Alison, dressed the part, owes him. She’ll help—for a price. Alison doesn’t do it for free anymore.

~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~

 

Alison took a deep breath, pushed the doors open and sashayed into the bar, hips rocking. Conversation dropped off as she crossed the room, devoured by fifty sets of eyes.

 

 Her metallic one-piece outfit was almost like a swimsuit. Her cleavage was very prominent, and her legs bare. Three-inch heels completed the come-on ensemble.

 

Fred met her at the bar. He suppressed a smile, a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

 

“Re-visiting the scene of the crime?” he said, wiping the bar.

 

“No, just waiting for a friend. Seen Tommy tonight?”

 

“Nope. What’ll it be?”

 

She swung her behind on the barstool and as she took out her smartphone, it pinged: “In Chicago. Flight delayed 30 mins. Love you!”

 

Alison frowned. Before she could give any thought on how to hold off a horde of horny males, the door opened and four suits came in. Not cheap suits, either, very tailored. The last suit was a tall, angular woman, followed by Tommy, dressed as usual in shabby preppie attire—wrinkled chinos, a faded golf shirt and beat-up loafers.

 

Ten minutes later, Tommy slid onto the stool next to her. “Babe, you look great. Better than last time.”

 

“I’m getting laid regular.”

 

“It becomes you.” He leaned in. “I, uh, got a problem. We need to talk.”

 

Alison smiled and put a hand to his cheek. “But you’re so self-sufficient and manly.”

 

Tommy held his phone up to her. A text message read, “Sorry.”

 

“It’s from ‘Heather,’ you know, with quote marks. My legion of women to soothe the Germans’ souls bailed on me.”

 

“Poor baby. Judging from this motley crowd, it might take you, oh, thirty seconds to recruit a new team.”

 

“Listen to me. This is important. This deal, I mean. Two major German car manufacturers are exiting the warranty repair business. They want to set up an independent company for all warranty work. They’re outsourcing. Allie, I get this deal, and I’ve got it made. I can retire in two years, tops. I’ll be in the Keys bone fishing every day. If I can close this deal.”

 

“Safe to say, your business savvy from fifteen years in the exotic car repair business is enough?”

 

“I wish. They’re Euros. The way you do business with them is, you entertain them. Yeah, I’m the logical guy. But there’s competition.”

 

“What can I do?”

 

“Klaus, Dieter and Wolfgang have been sitting at the table since the moment they came in licking their chops, looking at you.”

 

Alison stiffened. “Wait a minute…”

 

Tommy reached for her wrist. “You owe me one, remember?”

 

“Dammit, I’m not a common prostitute.”

 

“I know that. But you walked in here two years ago, hips swaying, to prove a point. To prove that you could do it—sell your body, make men fight over you, if you had to. That you’ve got the appeal and skills to do it for a living. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you had a good time, didn’t you? Then I whisked you out the back door, took you home, and you screwed me like a teenager.”

 

Alison bit her lip. “My girlfriend’s on her way. I just can’t—”

 

“Yes, you can. You can do it for me. I’ll wait out here for Morgan—”

 

“Moriah.”

 

“Moriah, sorry. I’ll intercept her. Got a picture?”

 

“She’s a dyke. She’ll stick out like a…” Alison jabbed at her smartphone. “Well, this probably isn’t the best…”

 

Tommy pulled the phone out of her hand and tilted it to get rid of the glare. “Yeah, well, the ball gag isn’t very becoming. No tits, but kind of cute. So this is how lesbians do it?”

Junie placed her curled fist in Melanie’s outstretched hand. “Remember your promise?” Junie whispered. Tendrils of arousal blossomed in the pit of Melanie’s belly. Melanie had her price, though: She wanted a weekend alone with Michael, Junie’s caged husband. And Junie had her requirement: Melanie must sleep with her black bull to prepare her for the women’s XXX weekend in D.C., where they would celebrate the legalization of gay marriage on a pretend honeymoon.

~~~~~  Excerpt ~~~~~

“So, how is this going to work? Will this be a threesome?”

“Gosh, no, Melanie. Gordon detests Michael. The cuckolded husband and all that. Gordon will be out of town most of that weekend. We worked it out. He’ll meet you at a bar Sunday afternoon. He’ll buy you a drink. I can comfortably predict he’ll seduce you. If it makes you more comfortable, you can take him to my place. Michael will be there. That should up the comfort level for you.”

“What about you?”

Junie’s faced turned quizzical. “Me?”

“Don’t you want to be there? To watch your black lover, you know, stretch me?”

“Heavens no, dear. Why would I want to do that? Anyway, I’ll be away that weekend.”

Lunch arrived, and the women’s conversation turned to politics. Earlier that day, the Supreme Court had ruled that gay marriage is legal in every state.

“It makes me so happy to see lesbians walking down the street hand-in-hand, smooching in bars, dancing in clubs,” Junie said as the table was cleared.

“I know two couples who are getting ready to tie the knot.”

“It’s made me think about our weekend.”

“Weekend?”

“If you get Michael for a weekend, it’s only fair that I get you for a weekend, right?”

“Sure. What are your plans?”

“Gay marriage is in the air. Can’t you smell it?” Junie grinned.

“What in the world are you leading up to?”

“You’re going to be my wife, Melanie. For two whole glorious days. We’re going to go on our honeymoon. We’re going to parade around town, arm in arm, holding each other tight, smooching and cooing.”

Melanie stiffened. “I am not a lesbian.”

“No! Neither am I! We’ll pretend! It’ll be fun.”

“Junie, I can’t strut around Boston…”

“I didn’t say here.”

“Where?”

“In D.C. I’ll be at a conference at the Library of Congress that ends Friday at five. I’ll pick you up at Union Station at six forty-five. I’ve got reservations at a great little boutique hotel just off Dupont Circle.”

“I see.”

“Think of it. Two hot chicks dressed to kill, hanging off each other. D.C. is so straight-laced and self-important. We’ll stand out, but in a nice way. We’ll make a splash wherever we go. People will nudge each other and say, Look at those hot lesbians! On Saturday, I’ve got tickets for the ballet at the Kennedy Center. I’ll buy you a drink at intermission. Well, actually, the whole weekend is on me.”

“Then back to our room for the main event?”

Junie smiled. “One of the main events. You don’t know this about me, but I need sex every day. If I don’t have a man, I have to … you know. My sex drive just doesn’t let up. If I go more than twelve hours without an orgasm, I get snappish and moody.” Her eyes lit up. “I want to find out if sleeping a woman will be as satisfying as sleeping with a man. I think so, but I want to know for sure. Think about it, Melanie. After a weekend of sleeping with Michael, topped off by an afternoon with my bull, wouldn’t you like to find out if sleeping with me is enough? Melanie?”

Melanie had closed her eyes. Tendrils of arousal blossomed in the pit of her belly.

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