K.D. West's Blog

A ways back, I began to write a sexy correspondence between two of my favorite literary lovers, Pride & Prejudice’s Mr Darcy and his new wife Lizzy. I put them aside, not sure where they were going — aside from just being a fun exercise in Jane Austen Fan Fiction (JAFF).

Then, a few months ago, Lizzy poked me, informing me that she had some things to say. And so I’ve been writing more letters — full of their amorous musings, to be sure, but with some fun plot twists and a few guest appearances by fictional and historical Regency-era figures.

I plan to publish the novel-length collection of their letters under the title Desire & Darcy: A Pride & Prejudice Variation in the next month or two — but I thought I’d share another tidbit with you for St Valentine’s.

Here are the two previous letters:

A New WifeThe Husband Writes BackThe Reply of the Newlywed

August 16 , 18__

Pemberley, Derbyshire

My dearest Darcy,

Well, then, when shall I hear just how you dream? My curiosity presses so determined a campaign against my patience that my propriety has completely fled the field. Oh, Darcy, do tell me these dreams. I long to hear them. And if you begin to tell me yours, perhaps I shall do my wifely duty and tell you mine own.

I shall give the gamekeeper (is his name truly Grouse?) permission to shoot Lady Croom on sight. I shall ask him to aim for her lovely head, however, since her gown was too pretty to be spoiled. After their visit yesterday, Kitty engaged Georgiana in nearly an half an hour’s speculation on whether the lace at the lady’s sleeves were Chantilly, while Georgiana managed to get Kitty to talk for a good fifteen minutes about the progress of the war and the propriety of purchasing goods from an enemy nation. I believe my project in encouraging my sister’s seriousness and your sister’s silliness is, so far, to be rated a success.

Darcy, I am so sorry that she robbed you of an experience that I can assure you was well worth the wait. I have known boys of Georgiana’s age — though none as beautiful and virtuous as I am assured you were when Lady C stole your virginity. I can with certainty affirm two things about them: of the first, that they are barely in control of their feet or their tongues, let alone their actions; and of the second, that a grown woman who finds fucking such puppies appealing (I was about to say “dallying with such boys,” but knew you would be disappointed at my stooping to euphemism) is a woman of very peculiar desires indeed, her infidelity notwithstanding. That she chose to fuck young George Wickham is a further damning piece of evidence toward this argument.

Other than daydreams of killing her with a birding gun, I have found my thoughts since your letter arrived this morning have circled around you, sweet, pretty, and serious as I am sure you were, and how I wish that I had been the one to initiate you into the mystery we now share. And yet if I were to encounter the boy Fitzwilliam (son and heir) as I am now, my love and desire would be protective and maternal rather than wifely, while if we had met at the time I should have been a scabby-kneed little hellion, more interested in playing Tom-o’-Straw with you than games of the sort we have enjoyed together so recently.

Oh, and now that I write that, Darcy, I feel the pang of wanting to play those games with you again wash through me like the rain that is even now pouring across the grounds at Pemberley. Oh, Darcy, my dearest Darcy, I woke this morning in our bed, alone. Alone! And my body felt that solitude, felt your absence, even more deeply than it did when you left me, bereft, yesterday. For this this morning I had only the dream and the memory of your presence beside and within me, while yesterday I had the very real, very physical reminder of our passion — of our fucking —to still the ache, this morning I had only the dream of the memory, or perhaps the memory of the dream, since I woke with the immediate sense of your pressing within me. Alas, that it was but dream of you, of your body and your presence. And yet, for these next days and nights, it is what I shall have to warm and comfort me.

I do, however, also warm myself with that dream — and with the very concrete possibility that there is in fact a part of you growing within me. Oh, that dream, that thought makes me warm, Darcy, and in more ways than one. I find that that — conceiving of conceiving, if you will — strikes me (even me!) quite dumb, and not altogether in a bad way, but as you say, in a way that makes me hope, perhaps, that I have not fully realized the concept (of conception), and that, perhaps, we may take a great deal more time “trying to conceive,” since, like you, I find the attempt itself “so astonishing an adventure.”

And I am glad, my dearest Darcy, that you feel as I do. Because if it were only I, I know that I should be utterly lost: your slave, to do with as you please. As I am, in any case, since I wish you to do as you please with me, and do so often. And do so again soon, though I know it cannot be.

I find that I must stop myself from beginning every other sentence, “I miss you” or “I desire you” or, if I am to be as forthright as you seem to think me, “I want you to fuck me.” I beg your pardon, my love, since it seems that, for all her pride, your wife is nothing more than a love-sick girl. Oh, when I think of how dismissive I have been of my sisters and their infatuations! Yet here I am — as speechless as Jane, as silly as Kitty, and as unbridled in my desires as Lydia. Oh, were Mary only here to comfort me with her chaste discipline! She could read some of cousin Collins’s sermons, which I have no doubt would cool my fever considerably. Yet I have no wish to have that fever cooled. I know the physic that will break it, and the man who bears it rides away from me, rather than riding me, and he leaves me green and moist and ready for his return. I am sure that is not a pretty image for you to contemplate. Ah, me — for, like you, the only embrace I have to satisfy the desire that you have engendered in me is mine own.

It is kind of you to term me “a model of chastity” — yet I promise you, my lord and husband, my thoughts this morning have been anything but chaste.

Your letter arrived not long after I first stirred, but before I had left my bed. Young Florry brought it in, all a-twitter, since the post-boy had delivered it to Mrs Reynolds with the very particular instructions that it be delivered into my hand (and my hand only) at the earliest convenience. I believe our correspondence has already given the servants some cause to gossip, and yet I cannot find it in myself to be ashamed. I am pleased that they know how I love you, and proud that they should know that you love me. As Florry burst in, however, I had only just finished embracing myself in your memory, a brief satisfaction that only left me the more hungry. I was glad, then, that she did not open the drapes before she had deposited the infamous letter beside me on the bed, for I had time both to compose myself — and to close my gown. I may be proud that they know your affect upon me, yet I would not have them see it!

I had to ask Florry to leave me to my private to read your letter — I had to ask her three times.

I do not think I am yet used to having people whose labor it is to take care of me. I have seen to that work almost entirely on my own since Lydia’s birth — with some help from Jane, of course — and so I have not yet become used to delegating that duty to another. I like Florry a great deal. She is sweet and funny, and reminds me a bit of Charlotte as a young girl, and so I know that I shall come to adore her as a maid and companion.

Yet it goes, perhaps, without saying that it was not for her care or companionship that I wished when she burst in to our chamber and the big, half-empty bed we have made such good use of over the past weeks.

It was, then, a delight — once I had shooed her out the door — to open your letter and read your dear, sweet, modest, and less than perfectly correct words! Oh, my dearest, naughtiest Darcy, I am pleased and proud once more, to have inspired you — you! — to write with something like the passion that I have enjoyed with you in that self-same bed. I consider it once of my greatest accomplishments, though not one I would share with the world.

And my heart aches that you feel such regret for an act that I neither blame nor condemn you for. You are as I would wish you to be. You are perfect, and — our American cousins notwithstanding — I do not believe that it is possible to make anything “more perfect.” Your experiences — all of them, including those with Lady Croom and Wickham and your aunt and even our sister-in-law Caroline — all of them have made you the man whom I have grown to love with all of my giddy, frivolous, un-chaste heart. Do not regret anything that has brought us to this place, I beg of you, Darcy, for I would not change you one iota for all the world.

Well, I have dallied here in our room for most of the morning, writing this, my second letter to you. And at the least I have this time had to tear up only two pieces of paper (which I should burn, now that I think on it, because I would not have Florry or anyone else read my girlish ramblings — anyone else but you, of course!) What a slugabed Mrs Reynolds must think me. I shall blot my pages once again, while the skies seem to have cleared somewhat, and see if love’s swift wings can carry my words to you and yours to me just as swiftly, for without you I am nothing.

Wistfully, madly, longingly yours,

ELIZABETH ANNE BENNET DARCY

PS It continues to fill me with joy and wonder to be able to write that name. And you calling yourself a “Bennet by God’s good Grace” makes my full measure of delight overflow completely. — EABD

PPS I walked into the parlour, seeking Mrs Reynolds to post this letter, and found our sisters, both looking very serious. Georgiana was playing on the pianoforte — something very playful and oriental-sounding — while Kitty was reading in French. My sister Katherine has few accomplishments aside from gossip and a fine eye for lace, however alone of all of us, she managed to acquire from our father a skill at foreign tongues. Or at least one foreign tongue. And I am certain that her interest had more to do with some of the less decorous titles in Father’s library. In any case, as I walked into the room, Kitty stopped reading and folded the book upon her lap — face down — with such studied innocence as I have seen her use all too often. Georgiana, on the other hand, blushed very prettily, but continued to play with nary a note missed. I fear that my project with our sisters may not be going as well as I had hoped. — EABD

PPPS I quite like it when your full measure of delight overflows completely. (I love it all the more so when it overflows inside of me.) — EABD

PPPPS Consternation. Lady Croom has written again. It was too much to hope either that she would simply send a letter of thanks for having invited herself to our home yesterday, or would trespass again and allow us to shoot her once and for all. No. She has invited me, Georgiana, and Kitty to Sidley Park this evening, in order to meet the poet Mr Shelley, who is apparently an acquaintance of Mr Hodge the tutor, and who will read some of his poems. I cannot suppose that it would be considered good manners to bring a pistol to a poetry reading, though perhaps gunplay might improve my opinion of Mr Shelley’s poetry. Consternation. I am beset. I am to be in company again, and not the company for which I long. — EABD

PPPPPS WHEN ARE YOU TO COME HOME? HAS IT NOT ALREADY BEEN PAST A MONTH? — EABD

Want to read more? Follow news about K.D. West on Stillpoint/Eros!

So a friend on an erotica-writing community that I’ve been part of for a while is giving a talk to a local romance writing group about writing smut. And surveyed us about our thoughts on how to right good sex scenes. I thought it might be interesting for me to share my thoughts —  and get some of yours! (I’ll also link to the survey at the bottom, if you’d like to participate yourself. OH! And I link to not one but THREE new titles at the end!)

Let’s Talk About Sex: Writing Believable (and good) Sex Scenes

What is something you wish you knew when you first started writing love scenes that you know now?

That what’s happening in the point of view character’s mind is far sexier and more compelling than even the most well-written description of what body part goes where. (Since I write a lot of ménage and reverse harem stories, this is doubly true!) Specificity and sensory detail are essential, but mental and emotional detail are what really makes a good love scene work.

How do YOU write a love scene? (any rituals? Light candles? Sit down and bang out the words, etc)

Sit down and bang out the words, mostly. I find that I often do some of my best prewriting as I’m falling asleep, so it’s mostly a matter of reconnecting with whatever impulse I found as I was drifting off.

Hey, guess what! I’ve just published a steamy, brand new holiday story called Making Movies. I know, I know — no one is more surprised than me. I was watching a, um, very popular holiday movie (points for guessing which!) and this story popped into my head, fully formed.

Stillpoint/Eros has posted a fun, hot sneak preview called….

Lust, Actually — A Making Movies Preview

Lauren usually loved the firm’s Christmas bash. The food was good, the drinks were flowing, and her fellow employees cut loose — even the notoriously uptight CEO Jillian.

And the previous two years, once everyone had gotten thoroughly plowed, she’d dragged Ray off, and they’d indulged in a particularly sweaty, particularly spectacular fuck.

The first time, two years before, they’d started making out in the hallway outside the bathrooms, when Glynna, the firm’s controller, had stepped out, rolled her eyes at them and snarked, as always, “Get a fucking room.”

And so, giggling, they had done just that:

READ ON

[image error]Guess what! Let It Go, my newest friendly MMF menage tale, comes out on Friday, August 2!

Let It Go follows Helen, Tommy, and Al (from Let It Snow), as they reach their gold at the end of the rainbow. Their ride off into the sunset. Their polyamorous honeymoon on an idyllic tropical beach.

Unfortunately, a cloud from Helen’s past threatens to darken their paradise. Will her wonderful new relationship with her best friend Tommy and his husband Al survive the arrival of her former fiancé… and his new wife?

By the way! Book 2, Let It Snow, is on sale for just US$0.99 for a limited time at Stillpoint/Eros or at your favorite ebook retailer! If you haven’t checked it out already, now’s your chance!

Morning Yoga from Let It Go

Helen was happy.

Of course she was happy. Why wouldn’t she be happy? She had every reason to be happy.

Here she was, walking down the path from the beachside, open-walled cabin where she’d left her lovers, Al and Tommy, back asleep after an amazing morning of passion — of passion for real, as Tommy put it. Passion with a purpose. Passion to make the baby they all wanted.

She could feel the remainder of that passion as she sauntered down the sandy path toward the yoga studio, her rolled mat over her shoulder. It felt wonderful.

It felt… terrifying.

It was one thing to want a baby. To dream of a baby — especially when Helen’s longtime boyfriend Ben had said emphatically he didn’t want them.

Just as well.

If he’d wanted babies as much as she had, she might have said yes sooner. And then they might have gotten married before she found out that Ben was a lying, cheating bastard. She might have had his child, and then they would have been linked together for the rest of their lives.

And then Helen might have had to kill him. Which would have been tough to explain to their child.

Helen reached the studio — another open-walled building, filled with the gentle sound of surf breaking on the white sand beach just through the palms. The teacher, a tiny, curvy Fijian woman, was on the floor, stretching. “Bula, Helen.”

“Good morning, Meleni.” Helen rolled out her mat. “Just you and me?”

“Nah,” Meleni said, rolling to to the other leg. “Another lady from your part of the world. She’s in the loo. Out in a minute.”

“Cool.” Actually, Helen was surprised to find she was disappointed. Ridiculous. Give a girl a bunch of money and two fabulous lovers and she expects a life of private yoga lessons and sex on the beach. Helen smirked at herself.

“Here I am!” called an American voice. “Hi! I’m Lena!” The newcomer was grinning enormously. She was the kind of woman who usually made Helen hate yoga classes. Skinny-skinny, hipless, flat-chested, long-legged.  An even, deep tan, with no lines anywhere.

But her smile was so genuine and so infectious that Helen couldn’t help but smile back. “Hi. I’m Helen.” She held out her hand.

Lena blinked for a moment, then took Helen’s proffered hand and shook it. “Honeymoon?”

“Uh…” It wasn’t worth trying to explain — Al and Tommy had been married for seven years; sure, they had told Helen that, as far as they were concerned, she was part of their marriage now. Still… “Yeah. Been here since Tuesday.”

“Me too! Honeymoon, that is. Just got in last night. Isn’t it beautiful?” She gestured out toward the beach, then toward the “village compound” that was the center of the resort.

Meleni the yoga instructor answered, “It is. Shall we get started?” When Helen and Lena both nodded, Meleni bowed. “Namaste.” Then she launched into the Sun Salutation and an hour of Helen focussing completely on her body and letting her mind wander.

Helen knew that she was a strongly left-brain person — she liked order, logic. Lists. Lists of lists. When left to its own devices, her mind shifted into problem-solving mode, and if there wasn’t a problem to solve, it would go searching for one.

She’d tried meditation, but had always given up in frustration. The only things that seemed to shut down her relentless code-breaking brain were reading urban fantasies, listening to baroque music, and yoga.

Oh, and sex. Sex did a remarkably good job of turning her mind off. Thank Lovelace. One of many reasons she loved it so much.

Especially with Tommy and Al.

Tommy and Al. Fair and fine. Dark and square. Their eyes half-lidded, their beards glistening with sweat as the three of them made love. Made a baby, maybe.

A baby. Maybe.

Usually, when yoga classes got to the corpse pose at the very end, Helen fell asleep, which the teachers usually assured her was fine. This time, lying there, listening to the distant waves breaking, feeling the soft, warm breeze flow over her, she found her mind focused on a spot half way between her pubic bone and her belly button — between her second and third chakras. Experiencing it as warmth and light, a tiny sunburst inside of her. Nothing there yet. But potential.

It had been her idea. Making love this morning without any protection. Knowing she was ovulating. It had seemed not only logical but right, the proper next step for the life that she, Tommy, and Al were building. But that hadn’t stopped her from crying when  Al came inside of her, the familiar pulse followed by an eruption of wet inside of her that was completely new. Hadn’t stopped her from crying again when it was Tommy. Hadn’t stopped Tommy either, come to think of it. Clamped together like limpets,  they’d clung to each other, weeping, Al stroking both of them. Comfortingly.

He’d probably been crying too.

She knew they were all happy — excited. But Jesus, it was scary to suddenly find yourself not just not trying not to get pregnant, but actually going for broke.

And it wasn’t as if she were right up against her sell-by date or anything, but spending five years wearing yourself down, convincing yourself to marry a man who had no interest in having children, and then turning around just a couple of months later and accepting not just the possibility but the reality of starting a family with your new lovers, new boyfriends, new SOs, new… whatever the hell Tommy and Al were to her…

Terrifying.

It felt… terrifying.

But she wouldn’t want it any other way.

 

When Helen opened her eyes as Meleni brought them out of the corpse pose with a quiet namaste, the soft, filtered light of the studio imparted a kind of clarity.

Terror was okay.

Helen could see the future she wanted as clearly as the white ceiling.

Oh, her and Tommy and Al building a family together in years to come. Absolutely that.

But mostly herself in their huge bed back by the beach, her legs wrapped around one and her mouth around the other. Now.

Helen quickly rolled up her mat. “Bula, Meleni.”

The instructor smirked. “Someone’s in a hurry!”

Lena threw her arm over Helen’s shoulder. “You know us newlyweds — can’t wait to get back to our husbands,” she laughed, wiggling her ring finger.

“I bet,” said Meleni, her smile bright, her eyes dark and knowing in a manner that should have made Helen uncomfortable.

But it wasn’t her Helen was looking at.

It was the ring. The ring.

White gold, with eight ⅛-carat chips of diamond in a cathedral setting on either side of a 3.5-carat, blue-white princess-cut stone. With a matching wedding band. Both of which looked a bit loose on Lena’s thin finger.

Depending on his mood, Ben had claimed that the smaller stones represented Buddhism’s Eightfold Path or the number of times he had proposed before she had accepted.

Helen should have known. He couldn’t even commit to a symbol, for Turing’s sake.

Helen found herself stumbling out of the studio, the younger woman’s arm still draped over her shoulder, the stone flaring in the tropical sun. 

“It is a husband, right?” asked Lena. “I mean, it isn’t —”

—isn’t two husbands, who are actually married to each other, not me, but we’re all working at making babies? “It isn’t… a woman. No.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t presume.”

“No. Yeah. It’s all right.”

They were drifting toward the beach — toward Helen, Tommy, and Al’s cabin, since on the small, private island, every direction led to a beach, except the bridge to the mainland — and Helen couldn’t think of a reason to detach herself from this sweet, insufferable women who was wearing her ring, the ring Helen had finally accepted from Ben a year and a half before. The ring that she’d handed back to him just before Thanksgiving. Well. Thrown back at him. That had never really felt as if it had belonged to her.

Lena was chattering, singing about her whirlwind romance. “So it was this looooooong flight back from Singapore — I love Singapore! — anyway, I can’t sleep on planes, even in amazing first-class seats like that flight, and he was just sitting there, looking glum, so we struck up a conversation. And it turns out we’re both on the rebound — he’d found his ex cheating on him and mine was leeching contracts from my family’s business, the asshole —”

“Ben’s ex was cheating on him?”

“Oh, yeah, and… Did I say his name was Ben?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh. Anyway, the first four hours, Singapore to Hong Kong, we talked about everything under the sun. Families, being onlies, favorite beaches. We both love Fiji, no surprise. He’s older than I am, but we have sooo much in common. Same college. We both love sushi, Malaysian street food. And of course, we’re both coming off of heartbreak, you know.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So then, Hong Kong back to SFO, things got deep, you know?” Helen shrugged, but Lena was already gushing on. “We talked about our hopes and dreams. He told me about his company, this amazing startup—”

His startup, which he’d leached money out of to fund his visits to Southeast Asian brothels featuring underage boys. His startup, which Helen owned a single share of — his least romantic birthday present.

“—and I started telling him about how much I hated being The Robichaud Heir, you know?”

“Robichaud… like… rubies?”

Lena shrugged and pulled a delicate gold necklace out from her batik-patterned yoga top: a pendant with a stone bluer than the South Pacific. “Also sapphires. And emeralds.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, but Ben, he didn’t care at all. We kept talking all night. Somewhere around the time we flew over Hawaii — the lights were out — I found I’d climbed over to his chaise, and…” Lena tittered, a very sweet, unselfconscious giggle that made Helen want to smack her. “Well, I officially became a member of the Mile High Club.”

“Go you.”

Again the giggle, louder this time. “I know, right? Anyway, as the sun’s coming up, he slips out of the chaise — to visit the men’s room, he says — and when he comes back, he gets down on one knee and…” She wiggled her ring finger once more.

“Congratulations.” They’d reached the spot where the short path to Helen and the boys’ cabin split off from the main one. Helen was torn between wanting to throttle the lovely, dewy-eyed young woman beside her and wanting to run away. “Um. This is my cabin.”

“Oh! Great. Sorry for talking your ear off — I’m still so… It doesn’t feel real yet, I guess.”

That’s because it isn’t. “Sure.”

“Anyway, we’re just two doors further down the beach. I’d love to introduce you! And to meet your husband, of course!”

“Hmm. See you, Lena.”

“Bye!”

“Bye.” Helen waved over her shoulder, forcing herself to walk, not run.

 

Trembling from her toes on up, Helen slipped through the door.

Al and Tommy lay curled around each other on the big platform bed, head to lap. Dark and light. Yin and yang. Naked. Sweaty. It almost took her out of her shock. Almost.

They both looked up, hungry at first, but then concerned. They sat up. Tommy murmured, “Helen?”

Helen threw herself into their combined embrace. “BEN’S HERE!” She wasn’t aware of having started to cry — but she sure was now. Tears, snot — the full catastrophe.

Four arms enfolded her. Held her tight.

“Ben?” Al whispered into her hair. “Is… here?”

“He’s MARRIED!”

“Oh,” Tommy sighed. “Fuck.”

“WITH MY FUCKING RING!” Now she was screaming more than weeping. “TO A FUCKING HEIRESS!”

“An…?”

“A. FUCKING. HEIRESS. LENA FUCKING ROBICHAUD. OF THE RUBIES-AND-FUCKING-SAPPHIRES-ROBICHAUDS!”

Al grunted. “Damn. Bastard landed on his feet.”

Squeezing her, Tommy kissed the side of her head. “I’m so sorry, Helen.”

Helen sat there, breathing in their embraces, feeling the rage and hurt course through her. The rage was winning. “Want to know what FUCKING pisses me off the most?” When they both nodded, their foreheads rocking against hers, she growled, “I don’t WANT to be fucking thinking about Ben, and my fucking ring and  his fucking wife, who is too fucking nice to hate.” She grabbed each of their semi-erections in a still-trembling hand. “I want to be bathed in dick, in your dicks. I want to be fucked silly. NOW.“

She could feel Tommy start to talk it through, fucking English major. Fortunately Al knew there was a time for words and a time for shutting up and sticking your tongue in your lover’s ear, which is what he promptly did.

Helen wasn’t completely sure what happened next, but somehow she found herself exactly where she wanted to be: on her hands and knees, slipping Al’s dark red cock through her lips — the ones up top — while Tommy slipped deliciously through the other set.

When Al had introduced them to the term spitroast that first morning in Jenny and Mike’s cabin, Tommy had sniggered like a twelve-year-old, but Helen had been vaguely offended. “I’m not a fucking lump of meat!”

And yet, then as now, Helen had felt like anything but a passive party in the act. Carnal, sure, and the guys may have been providing most of the motive force, each thrust pushing her onto the other cock, but Helen felt, for once, as if taking were more than just receiving. Her world was bounded by pleasure and nothing outside of that pleasure was real.

Their hands and searching fingers — those were very real: Tommy’s precise and smooth, sliding over her belly and her clit as his cock thrust into her; Al’s strong and callused, searching and teasing her rippling breasts.

When Helen had been taking linear algebra, she’d tried to explain what she found so satisfying about the notoriously abstract math to Gavin, her boyfriend sophomore year. She’d found herself saying, “The world just drops away when I’m working on an equation. It’s like sex. It’s better than sex.”

She’d meant to make him laugh, or at least to show Gavin how excited the math made her.

Instead he’d gotten insulted. They’d broken up a week later.

Asshole.

She still loved solving knotty math problems. But even that didn’t narrow her universe to a single point like this did. Like she hoped it always would.

Well. Two points. Which was kind of ridiculous and mind-blowing all on its own. “Fuck me,” she moaned — gargled, really, as Al’s cock slid over her tongue. “FUCK ME!”

And they did.

Helen was vaguely aware of her two men leaning over her, kissing as they alternated thrusts, ping-ponging her from the cock in her mouth to the one in her pussy.

Was vaguely aware that her body, which just minutes before had been tense with rage, was pulsing with rising tension of a completely different kind.

Then the tidal wave of sensation washed over her, and she wasn’t aware of anything at all.

What happens when your nightmare wanders into your happily-ever-after dream?
If Helen has anything to say about it, it isn’t going to end well for the nightmare

[image error]Helen, Tommy, and Al have reached their gold at the end of the rainbow. Their ride off into the sunset. Their polyamorous honeymoon on an idyllic tropical beach.

Unfortunately, a cloud from Helen’s past threatens to darken their paradise. Will her wonderful new relationship with her best friend Tommy and his husband Al survive the arrival of her former fiancé… and his new wife?

The second story in K.D. West’s Let It Be series:

Let It Snow
Let It Go
Let It Show (COMING SOON!)

(FMM bisexual romance, polyamory)

ORDER EBOOK ONLINE ORDER EBOOK @ STILLPOINT/EROS

[image error]Thanks, everyone, for your incredibly helpful responses to my question about polyamory. Your thoughts changed the scene, which I’d thought of as awkward but comic, into one that raises much more serious questions, ones the protagonist then wrestles with through the rest of the story.

Here’s the scene — if you have any feedback (either about the scene, about the woman’s questions, or about Gina’s answers), I’d love to hear them! (For reference: Gina, a black pre-law student, has been in a quad with three guys — Jim, Matt, and Sam — for the previous month. If you’d like a peek at their story, you can get a very NSFW preview here.)

The Visitor Rises (Preview #1) — Streetcar

Most mornings, Gina rode the streetcar with her earphones in and her head stuck in a book. This morning, though, she was too happy, too excited. She found herself humming, thinking about going dancing that night with her boys. 

“Someone’s happy!” An Asian women next to Gina grinned. 

“It’s my birthday.”

“Someone bring you breakfast in bed?”

Gina nodded and then leaned close. “My boyfriends.” 

The woman’s eyebrows shot in different directions, as if she weren’t sure that she’d heard right. “Boyfriends?” she whispered.  “Like, plural?”

Grinning even more broadly, Gina held up three fingers. 

Now the woman’s fine-plucked brows shot straight up. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Like, all at the same time?”

Forcing herself not to giggle, Gina nodded. “Aw, Hell, yeah.”

“Well… damn!”

“I know, right?”

“Um, do you mind my asking… I mean, was it just a one-time thing?”

“Oh, no, we live together, the four of us. It’s a, um, ménage à quatre.”

“Double damn.” She leaned closer. “So, was one of them your boyfriend, and then…?”

Gina shook her head. “Nah. They’re all roommates. I met them all at the same time and… We’ve all been together for a bit over a month.” Four weeks, five days.

“You and three guys? You must be exhausted!” 

Gina laughed, “Maybe. But I’m very, very happy. And they are too.”

“Wow!” The woman gave a smirk. “My guy and I have been together for a couple of years, and at this point, I’m lucky if I get him to make me happy once in a month. How often…?”

A bit embarrassed, Gina shrugged. “Well, not every night. But most.” Absurdly, Gina found herself remembering Barbara’s very unromantic lessons on avoiding urinary tract infections and other polyamory pitfalls. 

“Lucky,” sighed the woman, then squinted. “You’re using protection, right?”

Gina had gotten this question a lot — from her family, from her friends. She shrugged. “Well, I’ve got an IUD. And we’re careful.” Condoms for anal sex. Lots and lots of lube. Frequent pee breaks.

“Well, I mean, are any of you with other people as well? I mean…?”

“No. Believe me, we’re all into what we’ve got.” (And even if we weren’t, none of us would have the energy for another relationship.) “Polyamory don’t mean we sleep around, you know. Just that there’s four of us, instead of two.”

“Sure. That makes sense. Well, I couldn’t do it, I don’t think, and I know my Carl would never be able to share me, he can’t share potato chips, but it makes sense.” The woman raised a finger to her lips. “I mean, I know you’re not necessarily thinking about kids and stuff, but… Wouldn’t it bother them not to know who the father was? Sorry. Random.”

Now Gina shook her head. “Don’t think that would be a problem. One’s a redhead off an Indiana farm. One’s a Persian from Marin. And the other’s from New Zealand, but his family is from Korea.” She found her throat tightening, though she wasn’t sure why. “They’re all… gorgeous. Wonderful. But very different looking.”

“Damn.” The woman shifted. “I guess I just figured they were all black.” After a moment she whispered, “Which I guess is kind of stupid. I mean, I’m Chinese  on both sides, but I’ve mostly dated white guys. Heh. My mom always said Korean men were crazy in bed.”

Gina shrugged. Crazy was certainly one word for Jim, in bed or out.

“So do you have a, you know, favorite?” 

“Uh… I mean, they’re all different, but they all—”

“Oh, sure, I can imagine — well, I mean, I can’t really imagine, I don’t think I could do that. I mean don’t they get jealous?”

“Don’t think so. I mean, two of them are bi, so it’s not just me, you know?”

The woman’s already high, plucked eyebrows arched even higher. “So…” She blinked rapidly. “Wow. Sorry. I keep saying that. It’s just, it’s so wild. So do you do it alone sometimes? Just you and one of the guys, or just the two queer guys alone?”

“Um. Sex-wise? Sure. Sometimes. But we all live together.”

“Must be a big bed!” laughed the woman.

Gina laughed, not sure whether she was relieved or nervous. “Aw, hell, yeah!”

“But don’t you, you know get…. I mean, isn’t it hard to know that two of the guys are off boffing without you? I’d be afraid they’re going to just, I don’t know, just sort of use you and lose you? Or that the other guy — he’s straight?”

Gina nodded. 

“Damn. My boyfriend, he’d never go for that. I think the idea of two guys boffing would make him run screaming out of the room.”

“Sam’s okay with it,” Gina said, though she wasn’t feeling sure of anything any more.

“I don’t think Carl would be able to see me touching another guy, to be honest.”

Gina started to try to explain, to talk about trust and respect and all of the stuff that she and Lea had talked about all those months before, but the woman didn’t give her a chance. Smiling thoughtfully, she said, “Mind, I’d love three mouths making me feel good. That must be amazing.”

“It is.” (And not just in bed…)

“But I’d want someone who was just mine. Don’t you want that? I mean, doesn’t that bother you?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

They rode in silence for a block. The woman looked up a bit apologetically. “I mean, I’m sorry, asking all these questions. I’ve just never actually talked to someone… I mean, everyone has fantasies, right? I used to think about these twin brothers I went to school with. Um. But yeah, here, you’re living the dream.”

“That I am.” Gina found herself saying this with more emphasis than she’d meant to. 

The woman didn’t seem to mind. She was looking out the window. “I guess I just… All I can keep thinking is, Damn, where does everything go? I mean, you know, dicks and stuff, but also… I mean, arms and legs and —” She looked back at Gina with a smile and shrugged.

“Well, they’re professional dancers. So they’re really comfortable with each other, and really good at… at making things move around, you know?” (And we do spend time doing things other than fucking.)

“Oh, wow. Chippendales?”

“Ballet.”

“Oh.” For the first time, the woman blushed. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Gina said, trying to let go of the discomfort that the conversation had been raising in her. “I mean, if I didn’t know what a ménage à quatre was like —”  (If I didn’t have a family full of polyamorous relationships.) “— I’d have lots of questions too.”

“Thanks.”

They rode in silence for a few blocks. 

“Well, all I can say,” said the Asian woman, shaking her head, “is my boyfriend certainly has some catching up to do.” She chuckled, shaking her head again. “Funny thing: when I got on this morning, the most interesting thing I thought I had to look forward to was some old dude with a scraggly beard talking to himself.” She flicked her head across the aisle to where a homeless man — with a scraggly beard — was muttering something about furling under his breath. The woman stood. “My stop. Happy birthday.” 

“Thanks,” Gina said, returning the woman’s smile. 

But she was thinking about jealousy. And about how she was leaving for Atlanta in three weeks and two days. 

And what then?

I’m working on my next Visitor’s Apprentice story, The Visitor Rises, and I’d love some input. I’ve got my young protagonist Gina talking to a woman she’s just met about the very complicated four-way romance she’s involved in. The lady starts asking questions — who wouldn’t? And it got me thinking.

So I thought I’d ask:


Friends who’ve been involved in poly relationships: What questions do people always ask you when they find out (reasonable or not)?




Friends who HAVEN’T: What questions would you want to ask someone who told you they were in a multi-partner relationship?



Doing research. Really.

So I’m working on The Visitor Rises, the next story in Gina’s continuing polyamorous apprenticeship. It’s looking as if it’s going to be a bit shorter than the first two titles in the series, and it’s going to feature a birthday celebration.

Now, obviously, it’s going to include fun times with her dancer boys, Sam, Jim, and Matt. But what I need help deciding is whether to include Marie the Porn Star, turning it from a woman-and-her-three-men reverse harem to a two-women-three-men orgy. And if Marie gets to play along, should I allow her and Gina to have fun together, or should the only bisexuality be between the boys? (Say that three times fast!)

Take Our Poll

Hey! Stillpoint/Eros just posted a sneak peak of my new interracial reverse harem tale, The Visitor Falls! Check out what new polyamorous exploits Gina gets up to in this steamy sequel to The Visitor Celebrates.

Psst! You can pre-order The Visitor Falls for just $0.99 on Stillpoint/Eros or at your favorite ebook retailer… But only through September 1!
Preview: The Visitor Falls
Sometimes your dream falls at your feet
And sometimes you’re the one who tumbles

During the holidays, Gina got everything she could have dreamed of and more: a night of off-the-hook passion with two gorgeous firemen and their equally hunky best friend. It opened her eyes in more ways than one.

Since then, however, everything in the college student’s life has paled in comparison, and she’s begun to despair of ever feeling quite so alive — of ever finding the kind of polyamorous happily-ever-after enjoyed by her in-laws (the menage-happy crowd from The Visitor Comes for Good and The Visitor’s Wedding). When she takes a tumble down a mountain-side and twists her ankle, it seems like a perfect metaphor for her unsatisfying life.

But then she discovers that she’s fallen at the feet of three gorgeous ballet dancers who carry her down the mountain like a queen, and she thinks perhaps things are looking up!

A girl can’t help but hope

This novella is the second installment in The Visitor’s Apprentice, a wild, reverse-harem follow-up to The Visitor Saga and The Visitor’s Wedding:

The Visitor Celebrates
The Visitor Falls (order now!)
The Visitor Stands Tall (coming soon!)

(20,0000 words; Interracial reverse harem, MMMF, BWWM, BWAM; scenes of group, bisexual and bi-curious sexuality. Adult readers only.)
Preview: The Visitor Falls — Flying

RELEASE DATE: SEPTEMBER 1, 2018

[image error] So here’s a sneak preview from my next new story,  Wolf & Wand!

It’s a real departure for me — on a number of levels. First of all, it’s a no-kidding BDSM story, which I hope some of you will enjoy! Second of all, it’s a paranormal shifter story, featuring a werewolf and a witch. And third, it’s a period piece set in pre-Revolution France, back in the 18th century.

I’d love to know what you think!

Moonset — Wolf & Wand Preview

As the feeling of becoming human once more turns him right side out and the stars flicker brightly into existence overhead, Rémy falls to his knees and vomits. Once the heaving subsides, a sense of awful, empty consolation takes up residence in his empty stomach. Rabbit bones — nothing larger in his vomitus.

He did not kill. Not a person. Not his wife or child. Not last night.

He looks around, attempting to find his bearings.

Through the trees, he can see the familiar roofline of the Bonamant house. A thin serpent of smoke rises from the chimney. Perhaps…?

No. No, he should not visit his wife’s cousin in such a state: coat shredded and trousers in tatters, he looks like an escapee from a lunatic asylum. Is Séléné…?

His wife. His child. How can he reveal himself to them thus?

Better he should disappear. Better…

Never to have to face his responsibility. Never to have to watch himself fail Héloïse or their child. Never to see them suffer his shame.

He has never told Héloïse about the woman — about his first crime. She knows that a loup garou bit him, but not what he did after. He has never…

As he retches up another mouthful of bile, Rémy feels another sting — hot tears burning his scarred cheeks.

The shame redoubles.

What has he done?

How can he ever show his face again? To have put the two creatures he loves most in the world in mortal peril, and for what? A day on the river? An afternoon of sunshine and sweet white wine at his in-laws’ chateau?

Cold, autumnal wind whips through the nearby trees; there is an odd, familiar whispering sound.

Rémy sinks back, sitting on the chill, pebbly ground. Though the day promises to be as beautiful as the previous — perfect for the harvest — the clear night left the woods and his rag-covered body chill as death.

As he sits there, pathetic, cowering, and considers his position, the pre-dawn wind blows the scent of forest to him: humus and pine, scat and fur. Blood. Hunters and prey. It was a mélange of scents that was familiar and almost reassuring to him. Rémy can’t help but wish that he could let the Beast swallow him completely, could hunt through the night among these ancient, remorseless trees, could throw himself unremittingly into the passion of simply being an animal — no humanity, no past or future.

No Héloïse.

Héloïse, face bright with anger, telling him to be a man. Face slack with disappointment…

Their brief marriage has had innumerable moments of joy and pleasure — in bed or out, she has the ability to surprise and delight Rémy, something very few people had ever been able to manage, male or female. But the idea of her giving birth to a monster. Or of a child of theirs suffering for his curse. Or worse, of turning some month and failing to stop the Beast, breaking free, as he did last night — failing to stop himself from ripping open Héloïse and their child with his own teeth.

It is more than Rémy can bear.

And so he is here, cold and alone in the one place that never cared one way or another about him or his curse or his stupidity. He is drowning in shame and guilt, and yet here he feels relieved, absolved, as if the forest’s malign indifference had been some sort of benediction, and Rémy needs that benediction, that inhuman, vicious mercy that human beings can never somehow provide. Even if they love you without question.

Standing unsteadily, he begins to tear the remainders of his clothes from his body, heaping them against the roots of an ancient yew. Taxus baccata, highly toxic, native to graveyards and as out of place here in the oak and willow woods as he is himself.

Naked and shivering, he nonetheless grabs his coat and pulls it back on. Yes.The sides and shoulders are split, the sleeves shredded.

Cold and stones tear at the soles of his feet as he runs, and the first oak tree flails at him with its sharp-tipped leaves, and yet Rémy feels a kind of exhilaration begin to spark through him as pain and chill war with the growing heat of his exertion, of his rage and shame, and drive thought and memory quite out of his head. There are boar in these woods — if he should encounter one, he can at least be sure that his death will be relatively quick. Not painless, certainly, but quick.

And in the meantime, frigid air burns his throat and branches cut at his face and his thighs and he feels free, for the first time in months, years perhaps; he feels no need to apologize to anything or anyone; nothing in the forest cares what he is, or what he has done or failed to do.

Héloïse. Héloïse, the night they… Halos, face bright, turned away from him, back slick, hair like moonlight.

Moonlight…

As he runs, a thin branch slashes viciously across his belly, bringing him briefly to his knees and his head slams into a low stone wall. Panting, breath bursting in gouts of steam that obscure his vision as effectively as the pain on his flesh, Rémy looks around. Low, thin branches hang down nearly to the ground

Blinking away sweat — blood? — Rémy stares at the tree that attacked him.That I ran into, he corrects himself.

It is the willow. The one overlooking the river. The one where he received his bite, his curse, where he killed the poor woman who passed this torment on to him. At first Rémy withdraws but then the malevolent shadow of the tree begins to fascinate him; it sways in the breeze, flailing its branches at the intruder as if to punish him. Those snakelike, whiplike branches, so many —

If he had run right into it, it would have flayed him alive. It would have…

It would give him surcease.

For the first time since that night, he recognizes the expression on the dead face of the woman he killed: relief.

In spite of himself — because of himself — Rémy stands, staring at the huge, ancient tree, and steadies himself. He finds, to his horror, that the idea of giving himself over to this vicious willow’s ministrations… excites him. He, who has never found confession a useful exercise.

His body shivers more with heat than with cold now, and that heat radiates towards the willow.

Since the night that his nightmare began, Rémy has learned something about himself that, if he were forced to admit it, has always been true. Pain has always been Rémy’s friend. It is alway honest, never flinching. It is the best that he deserves and the consummation that he wishes for most devoutly; Héloïse can administer pain from time to time — a slap, a nip, a bite — but her heart isn’t in it, and Rémy longs, more than he could possibly have known or expressed, to be punished, to have the memory of Héloïse’s fear — of the disappointment had made her look so much like his every-disappointed mother — expunged from his memory in blood and agony. And if he were to die… If he were to end this livingcauchemar…

A consumption devoutly to be wished.

His mind clear, his heart racing, Rémy begins to drop fist-sized stones from the wall into his pockets, so that the ragged coat begins to feel blessedly, terminally heavy.

Quietly, raising his arms as if to a lover, Rémy steps, not towards the willow, but toward the low cliff overlooking the silky, dark green surface of the river.

Adieu, Hélöise…

Closing his eyes, he steps forward —

A light, airy voice speaks a word in a language that Rémy does not recognize, and he suddenly finds himself dangling by his ankle almost a dozen feet in the air, his limbs flailing as desperately as the willow’s. The rocks in the pockets pull the coat in the opposite direction, off of his willowing arms and depositing it where he had intended himself to go: into the greasy, dark water below.

After a moment, the voice speaks again, this time much more warmly. “Good morning, Monsieur de Garoudin. How nice to see you.”

“I… Who are you?” Rémy asks, trying hard not to consider his own state: naked, in the middle of the forest before dawn, his penis — suddenly quite erect — bouncing against his stomach. Humiliation and promised pain encourage rather than deflate his arousal. Pathetic.

“Oh,” sighs the voice, and Rémy finds himself rotating in the air, turning towards the upper branches of the damned willow. There, on a swaying branch even higher than he is floating sits a young woman with terrifyingly pale blue eyes, a mop of fair hair and a body as naked as his own; her clothes lie beneath her on the branch. In her hand she grasps a long piece of dark wood — it reminds Rémy of one of Mme. Jonquelin the housekeeper’s knitting needles.

“Mademoiselle Bonamant,” he mutters. Séléné’s breasts are in fact just as perfect as he had imagined they would be. Though how did she…?

“How lovely,” she says, cocking her head and smiling. “You remember me.”

“You are rather memorable,” he says, looking away from the moon-bright eyes and the cold-reddened nipples.

“How nice of you to say so,” answers Séléné. “That was rather a stupid thing to do, by the way, stuffing rocks in your coat pockets and attempting to go for a swim.”

“I…” Embarrassment and the blood rushing to his head chokes Rémy. The truth of what she says cuts more urgently into his soul than the fantastical fact of his floating, upside down, in midair. “Yes,” he concedes. “You are probably right. Speaking of which, Mademoiselle Bonamant, ought you to be here so early, and wandering these woods so… unencumbered?”

“Oh, I’m looking for mistletoe.”

It is with some difficulty that Rémy keeps his tone neutral and his gaze averted. “Mistletoe.”

“Yes. The dawn following the full moon is the most efficacious time to gather it. Very important for certain potions and spells. And of course, it must be gathered skyclad.”

“Sky—…?” Unsure whether his confusion stems from his recent metamorphosis, from his inverted, levitated state, or from her unworldly words and tone, he repeats the question that he asked in just the previous spring: “What on earth kind of convent school is it that you’ve been attending?”

“I suppose, since you yourself now live in the demimonde, I can tell you: it wasn’t a convent school at all. It was the Collegium Magistrae Ceridwen, a school for witches. I have only recently earned my wand.”

“Witches?” Wand?

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

“And, of course,” Séléné continues, sounding as if she were thinking rather deeply on the matter, “it is just as well that I’m not wearing any clothes, since you aren’t either, and that should have been rather awkward, don’t you think? Not for me, of course, since I should have been clothed and I am rather enjoying seeing your body, but for you, since I find people are often oddly uncomfortable about being seen whilst naked.”

“Yes.” The trouble with Séléné Bonamant is that there is always a logic to what she has said and done — however obscure or ill-founded that logic might in fact appear to be. Witches. A Witch. The demimonde. She knows… “Nonetheless, Mademoiselle Bonamant, I am less than certain that it is appropriate that we continue this conversation in our current state. And your… education notwithstanding, I’m rather concerned for your safety — “

“Oh, I am quite safe, Monsieur. I know this part of the forest quite well, you see. Unless you are worried that you yourself are some threat to me, which I do not think likely, since the moon has set, and, in the unlikely event that you were to attack me even now, I have a wand and you have none.”

This observation only increases Rémy’s sense of shame and anger. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “True.”

“On the other hand,” continues Séléné, “I am rather concerned for you. It seems to me rather peculiar that you should choose to go for a run in the forest on the morning following the full moon, and more so that you should make so self-destructive a choice as to attempt to submerge yourself in the deepest part of the river. I wouldn’t want my lovely cousin’s beloved husband to come to harm.”

“How nice to know.” Rémy’s head feels over-full, ready to explode, and only partially because he has been dangling upside down for the past five minutes.

“What puzzles me most, however,” says Séléné, “is that you seem to have wanted to take a swim with your coat stuffed with rocks, which does not strike me as at all wise. There are some rather lovely nymphs that live down in the river there. Is there some sort of werewolf-ondine symbiosis?”

“Not exactly,” mutters Rémy. “Would you mind putting me down? The blood is rather rushing to my head.”

“Yes, I noticed that your lovely erection seems to have rather diminished.” She shifts on the tree limb. “Oh, look, now that I’ve mentioned it, it seems to be reviving.”

“Mademoiselle Bonamant…” Dieu, Dieu, let me die now, please.

“Yes, Monsieur?” When Rémy can’t think of any way of completing the sentence without further humiliating himself, she continues herself as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “Yours is very nice, of course, though I have seen longer.”

“Please, Mademoiselle Bonamant, please, it’s inappropriate enough for you and I to meet in such a place at such a time, naked as we are, but doubly so for a grown, married man to be discussing his erection with a young girl. Please — “

“But you weren’t discussing your erection, Monsieur,” said Séléné. “I was. And do you truly think it inappropriate for us to discuss? I don’t. It’s there, so why should we not? Besides, I am of age. I am not a young girl. Perhaps that makes a difference? I do find it fascinating, however, that your body is is responding so positively to a situation that you say is so unpleasant.”

Again, Rémy can think of nothing to say.

Again, Séléné continues. “What I’m even more curious about, however, is why you were so set on drowning yourself. Tell me, Monsieur.”

Perhaps it is the blood rushing to his brain. Perhaps it is his own sense of disorientation or her outré, matter-of-fact affect. Whatever the cause, he tells her everything, though he has no conscious intention of acceding to her request. He tells her about the woman who infected him and whom he killed, about his anxiety about being a father, about his terror at what his condition might possibly do to his own family, about his flight from Héloïse and Thibault before moonrise, about his own stupidity, and finally about his own retreat to this old refuge, seeking…

“You came seeking punishment,” muses Séléné. “You wished to atone for your sins.”

“Yes,” chokes Rémy.

“I see,” Séléné murmurs, and suddenly Rémy is lowered from his ridiculous vantage above the river to just above the humus-covered forest floor. Lowered, but not released, and instead of dangling by his ankle, he shifts to a prone position, facing the ground.

A witch. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth…’

He nearly passes out at the relief of his circulation returning to something like normal.

Naked flesh whispers down the old willow’s rough bark; naked feet slide along a smooth old root that passes just below Rémy’s head.

“Mademoiselle Bonamant — “

“It seems to me,” she says, interrupting in the mildest possible manner, “that what you are looking for is to be treated as a misbehaving student is treated. If I am to do this, it strikes me that you oughtn’t to call me ‘Mademoiselle Bonamant.’“

“Do — ?” Rémy shakes his still-muzzy head. “Look, Séléné, I — “

“Madame Bonamant.”

“I beg — ?”

“I think it would help you if you called me Madame Bonamant. M. de Garoudin.” She moves again, walking by where he hangs, suspended, and he starts to turn his head, but catches sight of a vast and bright expanse of her skin, glowing pink and white, and lowers his gaze again.

He considers what she said. Part of him would happily deny it — he is no schoolboy, but a grown man. But part of him —

Séléné — Madame Bonamant — cries another word in that unknown, strangely familiar language, and Rémy flinches. But the curse is not aimed at him; something falls to the ground not far from him — something fairly light. “‘O slender as a willow wand,’” she sighs.

“M-Madame — ?”

THWACK. A sharp pain like nothing that Rémy has ever felt slices across his lower back — sharp and hot, but sweet and welcome, like the first taste of brandy, and he cries out.

“M. de Garoudin?” Séléné’s voice still sounds as calm and distant as ever. “Was that enough? Do you feel purged?”

Wolf & Wand: A Paranormal Erotic Romance
Sometimes, it takes more than music to soothe the savage beast

[image error]Especially when the savage beast is, like Monsieur Rémy de Garoudin, Chevalier de Saint-Cyr, a beast only one night each month: the night of the full moon.

When Rémy puts his wife and young son at risk, Shifting outside of his sanctuary/prison, he runs into the woods, wracked with shame, guilt — and blood lust.

As the moon sets and he regains his human form — and human regrets — he encounters a young witch who offers to give him the atonement he urgently seeks.

All it will take is a lash or two… from her wand.

(8,000 word BDSM, paranormal/shifter erotic romance set in eighteenth century France)

Happy day-before-Valentine’s Day!

[image error]Thanks so much for your help in choosing to write the full scene of Lea getting Gina nice and clean for her night with Sean, Andy, and Prior! I had a blast writing the scene, so I thought I’d share it with you here in its totality — I’d love to know what you think!

The Visitor Comes for the Holidays is now available on Stillpoint/Eros and on Amazon/KindleUnlimited! Check it out — and please, do let me know what you think.

Close Shave: The Visitor Comes for the Holidays Preview

As she was being dragged toward the stairs, Andy called, his eyes aflame, “See you soon, Gina.” The other two men joined him, grinning up at her.

When Gina stumbled on the staircase, Kirsten looked back and chuckled. “Yeah. My baby’s papa does the whole smoldering look thing pretty well, don’t he?”

“Uh-huh.”

It hadn’t occurred to Gina that this might actually happen. Well, she’d asked them, and they’d all said yes. And she’d gone up into her room and lay on her bed, playing with her pussy and her tits and even her ass, thinking about them, their mouths, their breasts, their cocks… But the idea that she was about to… With… Gina shivered.

Kirsten pushed open the door to the bedroom she shared with Cherry and Prior and pulled Gina in.

The bedroom was an absolute shambles. Clothes were scattered everywhere. There were handcuffs dangling from all four corners of the huge bed. On the nightstands there were three dildos, each with a set of straps that… Oh. Strap-on. Right. Two cribs were tucked into the closet. A pile of wrapped presents loomed next to the dresser.

Kirsten shot a crooked smirk at Gina. “Sorry. We kinda didn’t clean up from last night.”

“Oh.” Gina’s heart was beating like a hummingbird’s wings. “Was this where all five of…?”

Kirsten smiled a bit more fully and nodded. “Oh, yeah. Epic. But don’t worry — those boys won’t have any trouble getting excited for you. Trust me. They were all salivating this afternoon. Heck. Me too.”

“Um. Yeah.” Gina closed the door, stared at herself in the mirror there, and then turned back to Kirsten. “Kirsten?”

The blonde had wandered over to the dresser and was sorting through presents. “Uh-huh?”

“Does it ever bother you, being the one who isn’t, you know, married to anyone?”

Kirsten straightened and turned, putting three packages on the bed — two flat, one cubic. “Huh.” She looked down for a moment and then back up at Gina. “Sure. Sometimes. But, see, I know who I am to every one of them. With Prior and Cherry, I…” Pale blue eyes flashed up. “I’m their… handmaiden.” Kirsten blushed, but her gaze remained steady. “I’m the mama of Andy’s son, which we’re both ecstatic about. And I’m Lea’s BFF, which no one else is. And of course, I’m Sean’s bratty little sister. But you know what that’s like.” One solemn blue eye winked.

Gina nodded and smiled. “I guess… I wondered if you felt, you know, excluded, or whatever, just now.”

“Naw,” said Kirsten, her face warming. She sat next to the presents and patted the comforter. When Gina sat down on the bed, she cocked her head. “Now, you don’t think they’re having some romantic conversation down there or anything, do you?”

Gina shrugged.

“Heh. No. I’d be willing to bet that what Lea and Cherry wanted to talk to the boys about was treating you right. Following your lead. I didn’t need to hear that. Besides!” She plopped the first wide package on Gina’s lap. “I get to be here when you open this!”

Fingers fluttering, Gina pick up the package, which was wrapped beautifully in lavender paper. A card read, May you wear them well! Love, Cherry and Kirsten Unsure what kind of clothes the women could possibly have bought her, Gina was nonetheless touched. Mario had learned not to try to buy her clothes early on, so there was barely a stitch Gina owned that she hadn’t bought herself. She leaned over and kissed Kirsten on the cheek. “Thank you so much.”

Blushing again, Kirsten patted the present. “Well, don’t thank me yet! I want to see what you think.”

Curious, terrified, Gina carefully removed the paper, as Kirsten twitched with anticipation.

Gina didn’t recognize the store box. “NaughtyNice?”

“Hmm.” Kirsten was fairly bouncing on the bed, which, given Kirsten’s generous figure, meant that there was a lot of bouncing going on. “Open it!”

Sure now she wasn’t going to be opening a work skirt or a scarf, Gina took a breath and lifted the top of the box. Beneath a layer of lavender tissue lay four scraps of lace and silk, all in a gorgeous, subtle shade of ice blue. Gina gasped.

“Do you like it?” When Gina gawped at Kirsten, Kirsten spluttered, “See, people always want to put black women in black, or white, or, you know, like Cherry, bright red, she always… Anyway, I thought, your skin is such a beautiful… It’s just a shade warmer than Cherry’s and I thought this blue’d bring out the cinnamon in your —”

Gina didn’t intend to kiss Kirsten on the lips, but found that in fact she had done so. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.” She lifted up the largest piece — a lace cami with a set of straps that dangled from the bottom. “A… A garter belt?” Gina had never, ever owned anything so decadent. So naughtynice.

Kirsten nodded and lifted the two rolled lengths of sheer silk in the same barely-blue — stockings. “Um. Sort of. That. Too. But the straps…” She lifted the final piece of lace out of the box: a pair of panties.

These too were gorgeous — but they didn’t look like any panties Gina had ever seen: low-cut in the back, and with a set of flaps in the front that reminded her vaguely of the tighty-whities she’d stolen from Johnny for when she had her period. She wiggled a finger through the flap and shot an inquisitive look at Kirsten.

“Heh.” Kirsten thrummed the square package with her fingers. “That’s… about what’s in the present from Sean and Prior and Andy. I’ll show you —”

“Let her open the one from me first,” called Lea from the door. “Before you terrify the poor girl.”

Cherry strode over, sitting beside Kirsten and giving her a smooch. Then she turned to Gina. “You like Kirsten’s handiwork?”

Gina blinked. “Kristen’s…?”

For the first time since Gina had met Kirsten O’Connell, the blonde seemed shy. She fiddled with the filmy blue undies in Gina’s fingers. “I made them.”

“You…?” Gina stared down at the beautifully detailed, delicate lingerie. There were no tags. “Wow! They’re… amazing! You made these?”

Kirsten smiled and nodded. “Last year and a half, I’ve been trying to create a line of really… specialized lingerie. NaughtyNice. That’s me. And you’re my first… um… customer.”

“Oh. Wow.” She looked from Kirsten to Cherry to Lea, then back to Kirsten, whose face and arms were glowing pink. “Should I… try these on?”

Kirsten started bouncing on the bed in earnest. Cherry laughed, and Lea snorted, then said, “I think that was a yes. You can change in here if you’d like, or in the bathroom.”

“Um, in the bathroom, if you don’t mind.” Gina tried not to notice Kirsten’s disappointed pout as she drifted toward the bathroom door. She looked down at the wisps of fabric in her fingers. “Um. Lea? Would you…? I think I could use some help.”

Lea nodded.

“Oh, fine,” grumbled Kirsten. “Straight girl gets all the fun.”

“Hush, Kirsten,” Cherry ordered. “If she wasn’t straight, Gina there wouldn’t have asked her.” Cherry took a pale earlobe in her fingers and squeezed. “Now be good, and you know you’ll be rewarded later.”

Eyes closed, Kirsten moaned, “Yes, my lady.”

“Come on,” Lea chuckled, “before they start getting kinky.”

In the bathroom, Lea closed the door and began to turn away as Gina laid the lingerie on the countertop with shaking fingers and kicked off her shoes, then began to pull off her sweater. “You don’t need to turn away unless you want to. I just… It didn’t seem fair getting naked in front of Kirsten.”

“Okay.” Lea took the sweater from Gina and folded it, laying it on the closed toilet lid. “And thanks. I know K doesn’t seem like she’s got a whole lot of self control, but she really is trying.”

Unbuttoning her jeans, Gina shrugged. “I know. I mean, she was fine when we were alone.” She wiggled her way out of her pants.

“I figured,” said Lea. “Still, I’m glad.” As Gina pulled off her socks, Lea added, “Cute undies.”

“Thanks,” Gina mumbled. They were black, with a picture of R2D2 on the butt. They’d been one of Johnny’s few gifts, and were the only ones she’d kept, because she loved them more than she was annoyed at him. “They were all I had that wasn’t boring, white school-girl undies, you know? I didn’t expect no one to see my panties this vacation.”

“Sure.” Lea smirked, folding the jeans and placing them and the socks on top of the sweater. “So. Luke, Han, or Lando?”

Gina was about to answer that that was a stupid question — Han, of course — but then she spotted the glint in Lea’s eye. Ah-hah. Gina lifted her chin as she pulled her sports bra over her head. “All three?”

Lea laughed. “Oh, good answer!” The bra joined the other clothes on the toilet lid.

“Actually,” Gina admitted, steeling herself before stripping of the last of her clothes, “Finn is kind of my guy.”

“Not Kylo?” When Gina stuck her tongue out, Lea laughed. “I’m with you. How about Finn, Po, and, I don’t know —”

“Rey.” The idea had never been one she’d fantasized about, but… Gina shivered and dropped her panties, handing them to Lea, who smiled.

Gina looked down at her own body, which looked scrawny and hairy. She ran her fingers through her over-grown bush. “Wish I’d have waxed or something.”

“You want me to shave you?” Lea raised an eyebrow.

“Oh.” Gina had to stop herself from covering her privates. Which was silly. She trusted Lea more than the ladies at the salon near campus she usually went to. She pulled her hands behind her back. “Do you mind?”

“Mind?” Lea smiled and squeezed Gina’s bare shoulder gently. “Of course not. I’ll let the girls know we’re going to be a bit longer.” She turned and opened the door; a squeak came from the other room. “Sorry. Just wanted to tell you we’re going to be a few minutes. Just, um, keep going.” She pulled the door closed again and snorted.

“What?”

Lea’s face twisted between amusement and embarrassment. “Kirsten was getting her… reward.”

“Oh.” Suddenly Gina felt even more naked than she had the moment before. She clasped her hands behind her back.

“Well!” Lea said briskly. “Let’s get get you cleaned up!” She began straightening up the counter — putting a diaper bag on the floor, sorting the three toiletry bags to one side, lining up Gina’s undies.

Gina tilted her head and stared at the usually level-headed woman. “What in the Lord’s name are they up to?”

“Well,” Lea sighed, her hands finally stopping their fidgeting, “let’s just say that there are some positions you don’t need to see your best friend in.”

“Even—?”

“Even if you’ve fooled around.” A weak smile fluttered across Lea’s lips. “I won’t ever worry about her hamstring flexibility, though.”

“O… kay.”

“So. Well.” Lea reached into one of the bags on the counter and pulled out shaving supplies: a razor, blades, a couple of tubes of lotion, a jar of something, and a pair of shears. She shook her head. “Sorry. You ready?”

Nodding, Gina looked around. “Um. Where…?”

Lea patted on the countertop, apparently having regained her equilibrium. “Sit up here.” When Gina did, Lea smiled. “Legs wide. I need to get in there.”

“Oh. Right.” Wishing her body didn’t seem to be resisting every step of this process, Gina spread her thighs. Unsure where to focus, she settled on Lea’s t-shirt, which had a picture of the front of an old trolley on it with a sign that read Desire.

When Lea put a hand on Gina’s hip, however, she couldn’t help but let her eyes flash up to Lea’s deep brown ones. Again, Lea smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ve done this before, for K and Cherry.”

Gina nodded, though that hadn’t been why panic had surged through her body. Gina reckoned that Lea probably knew that.

“So, you lucky girl, you. Do you want me just to clean you up, or give you a landing strip?”

“Do…?” Gina’s voice sounded far away to her ears. Now she was staring at Lea’s jeans, wondering how she kept her bush. “What do the guys like?”

Lea gave Gina’s hip a gentle pat. “Gina. I need you to trust me. The guys like you. I think you could walk in there dressed up as a Wookie and they’d be excited to see you.”

Gina took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “All of it. Shave all of it.” She’d always wanted to try that; had always chickened out. What the hell. In for a dime…

“Yes, ma’am.” Lea picked up the shears. “Now, I need to trim you first. Okay? Pull up on your belly.”

Nodding, Gina exhaled. This bit she’d done before. You needed to get the pubes as short as possible before you took them off. She pulled up on the skin below her belly button.

With the shears, Lea began to trim the hair short.

“‘Least if I was dressed up as a Wookie they wouldn’t see all that I don’t got.”

Lea stopped mid-snip and stared up at Gina with an eyebrow raised. “Gina. Stop. You’re beautiful. You have a beautiful body. Don’t do that to yourself.”

“Yeah, right,” huffed Gina and lifted her hands to the barely visible boobs she’d been waiting to grow in since she was ten. “Ms. 34A here.”

“Hey, I’m a 34B, it’s not like I’m Danielle or Jessie. And Sean and Andy don’t seem to mind at all.” Lea chuckled. “Hell, they’re as attracted to each other as they are to me, and I doubt either of them even qualifies for a A cup.”

Gina snorted and lowered her hands back to her belly. “Yeah. I guess that’s right. Though I don’t have a dick either.”

Trimming away, Lea shot Gina an evil grin. “Well, the boys’ present can help with that.”

“Oh!” Gina gasped. “Is it one of them strap-on things?”

Lea nodded. “Oh, yes. And some other stuff, I think.”

“Do… Do they really like it when you use it?”

Now Lea’s smile shot somewhere past evil. “Yeah. They really do.” She winked. “I do to. It’s… Well, the ones Kirsten favors, they make both of you feel fabulous.”

“Oh.” Gina tried to imagine that and failed.

“Spread a bit more,” Lea said. “I’m going to need to touch you a bit. Is that okay?”

“Um. Sure.”

Lea pressed her thumb gently against the inside of Gina’s thigh and trimmed the hairs that lined the outside of Gina’s pussy. “So, did Johnny ever make you come just by fucking you — or any of the others?”

Gina just shook her head. To be honest, she’d mostly been the one getting herself off. Having them fuck her felt good — really good — but…

“Hmm.” Lea switched hands, and suddenly her thumb was pressing on Gina’s pussy lips, which felt… Gina wasn’t sure how it felt. “Well, do you know what the G-spot is?”

“Yes.” Gina was afraid to move.

“Okay. Great. So the dildo the boys are giving you, it has two ends. One goes inside of you, and it presses —” Lea moved to the other side of Gina’s crotch. “— up against your G-spot. Then there’s a bigger part that sticks out of you and into him. Or her. And then there’s a little nub right at the spot where the two come together.” She put down her shears. “While you’re fucking, it rubs up against your clit.” And Lea took the pad of her thumb and pressed it up against Gina’s clit.

“OH!” Now Gina knew how she felt: shocked, but good. Just like Lea had said.

Lea lifted her thumb away. “Okay?”

“Oh, fuck yes.” It came out louder than Gina intended, but just as loud as it felt.

Smiling, Lea winked and reached over to the sink and turned on the hot tap, which almost immediately began to steam the little bathroom. She dropped a facecloth into the water.

Gina found her fingers flowing over the short-shorn fuzz that now covered her pubic area.

“Ever gone bald?”

Gina shook her head. “Does it… feel different?”

Lea considered the question, plucking the steaming cloth out of the water and partially wringing it out. “Hold this against your pussy.” When Gina complied she said, “I like the way sex feels right after — oral sex especially. Oh. And also… Do you know what tribbing is?”

“Nuh-uh.”

With a smile only a bit less evil, Lea held her hands up, lacing the fingers together so that they looked like two pairs of shears going at each other. “It’s when two women rub their pussies together.”

“Oh.” Lord. “Does that, um, feel good?”

Lea’s smile broadened. “Definitely. If you want to try, I highly recommend Kirsten. She’s amazing at it.”

“Um. Not tonight. Thanks.” Gina tried to imagine what that would look like — feel like — and the result was that now the blood seemed to be trying to to go everywhere. Her pussy seemed to be trying to scorch the warm compress she was holding against it. Her cheeks caught flame. Her hands and feet tingled and her nipples throbbed — not a word she’d ever have applied to her own body, but definitely appropriate now.

Lea laughed and circled Gina’s left areola lightly with a fingertip. “These tell me you think that’s something you might like to try.”

A sound erupted from Gina’s gut she was pretty sure her mother wouldn’t have approved of.

“Sorry,” said Lea, though she didn’t look it. She picked up a tube. “Well. Do you want me to lather you up, or would you rather do it yourself?”

Gina plucked the tube of shaving cream from Lea’s fingers. She wasn’t sure she didn’t need another minute before the older woman touched her down there again. She took the damp cloth away from her crotch and dropped it back into the steamy sink. The shaving cream smelled of lime as Gina spread it.

Smile undiminished, Lea put a fresh blade in the razor and warmed it in the water.

“So,” Gina said as she slathered the white foam across her bristly pubes, “you guys do this all the time?”

Lea shook her head. “Special occasions. The first evening we were all up here, we made kind of a girl’s party of it before we all went off to our separate boys.” As Gina lathered up her crotch, Lea beamed and let one hand rest on Gina’s knee. “You can join us next time!”

“Uh. Thanks.” Actually, that sounded like fun. Too much, maybe. But fun. Maybe. Gina rinsed her hands in the sink.

“Spread again,” Lea said, patting the inside of Gina’s thigh. When Gina did, Lea knelt once more between Gina’s legs and took the razor out of the hot water. “Hold your belly again. I’m going to start at the top and work my way down, okay?”

Gina nodded and complied, breathing in the citrus scent.

Lea started to carve away the hair from Gina’s pubic mound. “Most of the time, we just go natural. The boys too.”

“The guys shave their pubes?”

“Sometimes. As much for each other as for us, to be honest.” She cleaned the razor in the sink. “They went all out that first night here. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were doing the same right now.”

“Oh.” Oh, Lord. Lord. Lord.

“Wider.” Lea had removed most of the visible hair and was starting to work on the area where Gina’s pussy lips split.

She clenched her teeth, trying not to shiver with the sharp blade so close to her most delicate flesh. She hadn’t seen this part of her body like this in a decade. As Lea worked around Gina’s labia, gently shaving in the creases and crevices, Gina found that she was fascinated. Her pussy was smaller than she usually thought of it, and darker than the flesh around it — what she’d always thought was the hair color was actually partially the skin.

And between, a small bump, lighter brown.

It looked…

“Your pussy,” Lea began and then looked up as she once again cleaned off the razor. “This is going to sound like the least straight-girl thing you’ve ever heard, but you have a really cute cunt.”

“Uh. Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.” Lea winked. “Well… That was probably not the thing I should have said, because what I need you to do right now is hop off, turn around, and bend over.”

Gina found herself giggling. “Yes, my lady.” This part she’d done before too.

Lea laughed. “Oh, god, please, no.” She knelt down behind Gina, pulling one of Gina’s butt cheeks out of the way, then the other, shaving the last bit of hair from Gina’s bottom. “One mistress-servant game in the house is enough, don’t you think?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Gina laughed. Though what she was thinking was what it would feel like if Lea were to lean forward and—

“Done.” Lea stood and gave Gina’s butt a quick pat. She plucked the facecloth back out of the water. “Clean yourself off.”

Gina stood and looked at herself in the mirror as she rinsed off her pussy. Her bare, naked, smooth pussy, the split lips only just revealing the bump of her clit. “Wow.”

“Told you it was cute.” Lea picked up the small jar, which had a green picture of a bikini bottom on it. “So. Exfoliant, to keep you from getting ingrown hairs. No fun, down there.” She opened the jar and held it out. “Now, do you want to, or do you want—?”

“You do it. Please.”

“Okay.” Dipping into the jar, Lea tilted her head and smiled at Gina in the mirror, as if she knew exactly what Gina was thinking.

Which Gina didn’t know herself.

Exfoliating scrub. Nothing sexy or sensual about exfoliating scrub.

Though Gina couldn’t take her eyes off the sight of Lea’s tan hand rubbing the stuff over her brown flesh. Her chocolate-brown, cute pussy.

Finished, Lea closed the jar and washed her hands. “Rinse again.”

Gina did, running the damp cloth and her hands over the smooth expanse below her navel long after all traces of the scrub were gone.

“I told you it’d feel nice.” Lea chuckled, then held up one last tube, this one blue. “This gel has actually got some anti-inflammatory stuff in it to keep you from getting a rash. Joanie from the firehouse told me about this.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Want me to do you?”

“Huh. Yeah. Please.” Gina was listening, but mostly she was looking at her body — thinking that, with her naked pussy, her skinny body, her flat chest, she felt like a little girl. Would three grown men want anything to do with a body like this?

As if reading Gina’s mind, Lea murmured, “The boys are going to eat you alive.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so.” With a wink, Lea squeezed a dollop of bluish goop into her hand and began to smooth it into the plane where Gina’s bush had been.

“Lea? What…” The gel was cool and pleasant. Gina had already whined about her insecurities. Fine. She’d just have to trust that Lea knew what her husbands liked. And try not to collapse into a gibbering mass. “What are they like? I mean, as, you know…?”

“As lovers?” When Gina nodded, Lea gave a purr. “Wonderful. Different. But all wonderful. And wonderful together, too.”

“Oh.”

Lea began working the gel between Gina’s legs. “Andy’s really… impetuous. Passionate. Sean’s more laid back. You saw what he was like when you kissed him this morning?”

Again, Gina nodded. She sure had.

“Well, he takes his time, but he’s totally focussed. It’s wild.”

“Hmm.” Gina could definitely imagine that.

Lea’s fingers working at Gina’s folds didn’t help. “Prior — he’s just… fun. Playful. Thoughtful too — all of them are — but man, that cock of his…”

Gina’s breath caught. Lea’s fingers had definitely smoothed all of the gel into the shaved bits around Gina’s pussy, but they were lingering. “They’re all… kinda big. Ain’t they?”

“Oh, yes,” said Lea, purring again. “All of them.” She slipped two fingers between Gina’s spreading lips and let them trail up on either side of her stiffening clit.

“Oh!”

“Want me to stop?” When Gina shook her head, Lea began a sort of walking motion with her fingers, stroking first one of them up the length of Gina’s lips, and then the other, giving the clit a gentle flick at the top of each stroke.

“Ooooo…” Gina’s eyes closed. “What… what you doing?”

“Well,” Lea sighed into Gina’s ear, “I’m playing with my friend Gina’s sweet, slick, cute little pussy. I’m getting it nice and wet and ready for my two enormous husbands and their gigantic boyfriend to slide their big, long, thick, stiff dicks in there and fuck her like she’s never been fucked.”

Gina arched, imagining those cocks filling her…

“Is it working?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Good.” Lea gave Gina’s blooming pussy a light squeeze and kissed Gina’s ear. “Time to put on the sexy silkies.”

“Huh?”

With a smack on Gina’s butt, Lea disengaged, turned, and picked up the blue lingerie. “Remember these?”

In fact, Gina had quite forgotten anything but the heat radiating from her bare crotch. “Oh. Yeah.” She took the lace top from Lea’s glistening fingers and pulled it over her spinning head. She pulled it down over her body — it fit… Well, it fit as if it had been made for her. Once it was smoothed down over her body, the neckline scooped down, barely covering Gina’s nipples, and the bottom hem curved up around her belly button, leaving her pussy fully on display. Gina played with the straps that dangled down, poking her fingers through the reinforced loops halfway down. “What’re these?”

Lea shot an annoyingly knowing look at Gina. “I’ll show you in a minute. Here.” She handed one of the stockings to Gina, who pulled it on. It felt… It felt like mint chip ice cream tasted. There was a strip of lace lining the top that clung to the top of Gina’s thighs and a seam that ran down the back.

“Mmm.” It felt amazing — but Gina could see that Kirsten had been right about the color: it set off the warm brown of Gina’s skin beautifully.

“Right?” Lea handed over the other stocking. “These are the only thing K didn’t actually make — but when she had me try on a pair, I didn’t want to take them off. Neither did Andy and Sean.” She knelt, fastening the garter straps to the front of the stockings. “Okay, turn around.”

As Lea fastened up the backs, Gina stared at herself in the mirror. “Um. Don’t the panties go on under?”

“Now, see, Kirsten would say that — that it makes the line better.” Lea fussed with the seams at the back. “But as someone who’s enjoyed wearing these through long nights of fun, I can tell you that being able to take the panties off without having to undo everything else — it’s much nicer.”

“I bet.” Gina’s body was now cased in pale blue silk and lace — all except the part they’d just shaved, which looked very ready for action.

Still kneeling at Gina’s feet, Lea held the panties out for Gina to step into, and then pulled them up over the straps. The undies were as sheer and sexy as the rest, but now the loops on the insides of the garter straps lined up with the little flap at the front of the panties.

Gina pushed a finger through the loops and out the hole. “Oh! Are these for the —”

“The strap-on, yeah.” Lea gave Gina’s finger a squeeze as she stood. “They hold everything in place while you’re going at it.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“I’ll say.” Lea turned Gina back toward the mirror. “What do you think?”

Gina looked at herself. Gina, who rarely wore anything that anyone would call sexy. Gina, who had had three guys in her whole life, and two of them had barely counted, they were so whatever about the whole thing. Gina, who’d spent her whole life wishing she looked like someone else — taller, with bigger boobs or blonde hair or darker skin or freckles. Gina. Who had to admit, looking at herself in the mirror: she looked hot.

She ran her hands over the cami, over the panties, feeling the lace against her hairless skin. She tore her eyes away from herself. “You think we’re safe showing Kirsten?”

Lea beamed and took Gina’s hand. “Even if they’re not done, they’ve got to see this.”

Entering the bedroom, Gina found herself hiding behind Lea, peering over the other woman’s shoulder — nervous about what they were walking in on as much as what Cherry and Kirsten would think of how Gina looked in their gift.

The mistress and the handmaid were curled at the head of the bed. Cherry was stroking Kirsten’s hair as the blonde lay with her head in her lady’s lap. Clearly, Kirsten’s reward had been administered and enjoyed.

“Ta-da!” said Lea, stepping to the side and displaying Gina to her girlfriends. The air of relaxation that suffused the two on the bed evaporated as soon as they saw Gina.

“Gawd!” Kirsten bounced up to her knees. “Gina, sweetie, that looks even better on you than I thought it would! Don’t you think, Cherry, sweetie?”

Cherry patted her lover’s cheek. “I think, Kirsten, baby, that you know damned well the answer to that. You look fabulous, Gina.”

Gina shrugged shyly.

Springing from the bed, Kirsten examined every hem and seam of the outrageous outfit. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the panties. “Did you…? Lee-lee, did you shave this girl? Is that what took y’all so long?”

“Yes, Kirsten. Mind, it didn’t look like you had any cause to complain. Nice janusirṣasana, by the way.” Lea held up her index finger and then doubled it over in a full forward bend.

“Oh.” Kirsten pinkened. “Thanks.”

“Well, Kirsten,” said Cherry, patting the blonde on the shoulder, “you should be pleased. I don’t think anyone with a pulse could look at Miss Gina here and not have their mouth water.”

Back to having her blood run in contrary directions, Gina crossed her arms over the stiff nipples she knew were clearly visible through the blue lace of the top. “Lord. Don’t want no one seeing me like this! Except, you know…”

“Ah!” Lea pushed past the others to the foot of the bed, where the two unopened presents still lay. “Open mine. It will help on the off chance you run into your brother or my mom or someone out in the hall.”

Cherry and Kirsten both began urging Gina to open it; she unwrapped the remaining flat package to find a box from Virginia’s Bounty. And inside, a short silk kimono beautifully decorated with irises. It barely hid anything, but as she pulled it on, Gina at least felt less as if she were advertising her wares. Such as they were.

“What’s your shoe size?” Lea asked, holding up a pair of blue pumps. “I grabbed them from my room because I thought they might look good with this outfit.”

“Six,” said Gina, stunned by the gifts that were coming her way. And that would be coming later. She slipped the shoes on; they fit perfectly. Of course. This was her night to be the princess.

Gina hadn’t worn heels since senior prom.

Prom. Gina raised her hand to the wild fleece atop her head. She wished —

“Two shakes, little sister,” said Cherry, sounding pleased to be able to get into the act. She retrieved some gel, a rattail comb, a brush, and a long hair tie from the bathroom and set to work on Gina’s mop.

Gina stood, stunned, trying hard not to think of her mother’s fingers moving through her hair. Sex, she thought. I’m going to have sex. SO much sex.

With sure, quick fingers, Cherry smoothed back Gina’s hair, parted it, and pulled it back out of the way.

When she was done, Cherry shot a look at Lea, who looked impressed. Primping and re-draping the sheer fabric of the robe and of the garments beneath, Kirsten maneuvered Gina over to a full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. “Look.”

The hair was gorgeous, an elegant low puff straight out of a fashion mag. The clothes…

The effect of the whole outfit was definitely more modest than when Gina had been staring at her barely clothed body in the bathroom, and yet the addition of the robe somehow made it sexier, as if by obscuring Gina’s figure even the tiniest bit more, it drew more attention to her. And Gina was shocked to find that she actually felt as if she deserved the attention.

A knock shattered Gina’s self-assured dreamscape. She clutched the robe to her as Lea answered the door.

Pat stuck his head in, grinning; when his eyes found Gina, however, his jaw dropped. “Whoah.”

The older women all laughed.

“That all you got to say, Pat?” asked Gina tartly.

He shook his head is if to wake himself. “All I have to say that is in any way appropriate to a woman half my age. Yes. Aside from the fact that you look gorgeous, and your, uh, admirers are all waiting for you up in your room, whenever you’re ready.”

“What do you think, Pat,” said Cherry, smirking, “is she ready?”

“I… think that that is for Gina to say.” His eyes locked on hers, and for the first time, Gina felt that he was looking at her as a woman, and not as Mario’s little sister.

Lea ran a hand down Gina’s silk-clad arm. “And what does Gina have to say? Believe me, they’ll wait as long as you —”

“No.” Gina stood tall, her arms dropping to her sides. “No, I’m ready.” More than ready.

“Well, then, princess,” said Kirsten, “your chamber awaits. Let us attend you thither.”

“Thither?” Gina fought down a laugh. If she started, she didn’t think she’d be able to stop.

“Kirsten likes her storybooks,” Cherry said, and it looked as if she too were swallowing a laugh.

“As my ladies say,” cooed Kirsten, giving Cherry and Gina — Gina! — a low curtsy.

“Then come on,” said Gina, shoulders back. “Attend me thither.”

Well, what do you think? I’m really happy with how that turned out — and with how lucky Gina’s night turned out all the way through. I’d love to hear what you think.