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Emily Vargas has been taken captive. As part of his conditioning methods, her captor refuses to speak to her, knowing how much she craves human contact. He's far too beautiful to be a monster. Combined with his lack of violence toward her, this has her walking a fine line at the edge of sanity. Told in the first person from Emily's perspective, Comfort Food explores what happens when all expectations of pleasure and pain are turned upside down, as whips become comfort and chicken soup becomes punishment.
DISCLAIMER:
This is not a story about consensual BDSM. This is a story about "actual" slavery. If reading an erotic story without safewords makes you uncomfortable, this is not the book for you. This is a work of fiction, and the author does not endorse or condone any behavior done to another human being without their consent.
REVIEWS:
" . . . dark, provocative, and glaringly honest . . ." H. Turley, Reader
"Disturbing, twisted, and just plain weird . . . " Amy, GoodReads Reviewer
" . . . an intelligently written, well-researched and very erotic exploration of the extremity of power dynamics . . . It's refreshing to read someone brave enough to tackle erotic themes that are truly taboo and seldom published." - Remittance Girl, Reader and author of "Gaijin" and other erotic novellas
"They are a match made in a twisted sort of hell. I don't, as a rule, like erotica, but I'm likely to check out Ms. Thomas' future work just to see how far she can push the envelope." - A Taste For Ebooks, Review Blog
192 pages, Hardcover
First published March 1, 2010





















I want her fear, desperation, complete and total obedience. And I am willing to wait for it.
He always gave me choices. Or maybe what he gave me was force wrapped in the pretty package of pretend free will.

I'd been irrevocably changed, and no one wanted to accept it, not even me.


I wondered again if he believed freeing me had been a cruelty or a kindness, if he thought he’d done something wrong in taking me. I wondered if he regretted letting me go, and if he ever thought of me or dreamed of me as I did him. Surely my obsession couldn’t now be greater than his.
~ Emily ~

“He always gave me choices. Or maybe what he gave me was force wrapped in the pretty package of pretend free will.”
“I was starting to feel safe with him. He’d gone from being just my tormentor to being my tormentor and protector, though I needed protection from nothing but him.”
“Every touch, every caress, every lash of the whip, crop, or cane. It was all communication, a private conversation that no one else could intrude upon.”

“I came to trust him more than I’d ever trusted anyone. Because even if he was a monster, he followed his own rules. And he was my monster.”

"He was everything. We communicated on the primal level of touch. Dominance and submission. Master and slave. Nothing else was required."
"It didn't matter anymore because we were both insane. How can the crazy judge the crazy? He was a sadist, and he'd trained me into the perfect masochist."
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No matter how desperately I wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to hate him. But it wasn’t love either. What we shared was deeper than love. It was a mad and unyielding obsession, and it was mutual. And the flames from it would likely kill one of us some day. Probably me. I couldn’t bring myself to care. I’d rather have this intensity with him than a hundred years of mediocrity with another.

“He always gave me choices. Or maybe what he gave me was force wrapped in the pretty package of pretend free will.”