Wading In: An Homage to Hot Summer Nights, at Bellesa.co

Beautiful girl is underwater. Woman floating in sea

As summer cedes to fall, I find myself reaching for what I consider to be quintessential “autumn reads.” Ghost stories, psychological thrillers, epic love sagas. I recently finished Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn, which I enjoyed (though not as much as Gone Girl) and my beloved copy of The Time Traveler’s Wife has been whispering to me from its spot on the shelf. The trees are burning gold, and I’ve had to bring the space heater up from the basement so I can continue to write on the porch.

Yes, fall is in the air. But before you pack away the shorts and swimwear, allow me to coax you back into summer’s embrace for a few moments with my new short story, “Wading In.”

Wading In
External link (NSFW)

Once again, I’ve partnered with Bellesa to bring you this steamy story about an independent woman named Lorelai, who has vowed to put her pleasure first in the wake of a difficult break-up.

When the heat of the night reaches a fever pitch, she sneaks into her neighbor’s pool for a midnight skinny dip. To her surprise, she’s not the only one looking to cool off under the cover of darkness: her handsome new neighbor, Will, has the same idea. And while Lorelai doesn’t need a helping hand to get herself off, she can’t help wondering if it might be time to let someone get close enough to touch.

“Strange things happen to your body when you go a long time without physical contact. After the cravings subside, you start to forget what it feels like to be touched…”

Read an excerpt below:

Tossing back the sheet, I rose from the bed and threw on a T-shirt and shorts. Pippa lifted her head from where she lay sprawled out on her dog bed. I told her to stay, then padded downstairs, out the back door and into the night.

The moon was bright enough to see by. I didn’t bother trying the gate in case I tripped the censor light on Alma Crowley’s garage. Instead, I opted for the stepladder I’d been using to paint my shutters.

Once I was over the fence, I moved silently across her yard, though I doubted she could hear me with all her windows closed. Moonlight glinted off the ripples on the built-in pool. Feeling giddy, I stripped out of my tank top and shorts, and made my way around to the shallow end of the pool.

A soft moan floated from my lips as I descended the four large steps. Even at lukewarm, the water felt delicious against my hot skin. Dunking under to wet my hair, I propelled myself toward the center of the pool, then resurfaced. I wiped the water from my eyes and breathed a contented sigh.

“Feels great, doesn’t it?”

“Jesus!” I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of Will’s voice. I scanned the water until I spotted him, tucked around the bend in the kidney-shaped pool. “What are you doing here?”

“Same thing you are,” he said. “Taking a midnight dip. Sorry if I scared you.”

He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded amused. I moved to cover myself, though I doubted he could see me in the dark. “Why didn’t you announce yourself?”

“Calling out wouldn’t have been very smart, since I’m not supposed to be here. And seeing as how you snuck in over the fence, I’m guessing neither are you.”

“Not exactly.”

Will swam away from the side, pushing himself toward the center, toward me. His teeth glinted. “Honestly? I was admiring the view.”

“Were you, now?” My tongue felt clumsy, too big for my mouth. Figures, the one thing I was trying to avoid would be waiting for me in the place I wasn’t allowed to go. It was like fate was challenging me to sin harder. And there was no denying that Will was sexy as sin.

He sidled up to me, the drops of water on his well-toned chest and arms sparkling like diamonds. “I know you were checking me out on your nightly walks with Pippa.”

I aimed my smile at the water. He’d remembered my dog’s name. “Was I that obvious?”

“No. I only noticed because I was checking you out, too.”

A warm shiver rippled across my skin; I felt as though I’d been dropped into a glass of champagne. I floated onto my back before I recalled that I was naked.

My nipples puckered to tight peaks. I wondered if Will was staring at my breasts, licking his lips and imagining what they might taste like. Arousal skittered like pebbles in a rainstick from the apex of my thighs to the tips of my fingers and toes.

“You know,” he said, “the first time I saw you I couldn’t take my eyes off you, especially your legs.”

My legs had always been one of my best features. I’d often wear skirts when I walked Pippa, hoping Will might notice. I righted myself in the water, planting my feet so I could press my thighs together.

Will swam closer. “I thought about you later that night. About what it would feel like to kneel in front of you on the sidewalk and have you drape your skirt over my head. I wondered what color panties you’d be wearing.”

I wondered if Will could read the desire on my face as clearly as I could read his, plain as white chalk on blacktop. I took a shuddering breath. “Have you thought about me since then?”

Will nodded. “Every night.”

Revisit those hot summer nights with my new erotic short story “Wading In” at Bellesa.co!

An Only Child Becomes a Sister: On Joining the #SistersinSmut

I am not what you would call a joiner. In school, I never played sports or participated in extracurriculars—save art club, but that was more of a drop-in-whenever sort of deal.

My parents signed me up for computer camp one summer, which I now appreciate, but at the time, I was less-than grateful. There’s an active kink community in my area of which I’m not a member.

So when the lovely Doctor J invited me to join Sisters in Smut, I’ll admit, I was hesitant. Having grappled with social anxiety my whole life, I’m used to the tense muscles and racing thoughts that accompany any sort of potential group event—including online interactions.

But something told me not to shy away from this opportunity…

Read on at the Sisters in Smut Blog

Make It Right: A Brand New Erotic Story Now Available on Bellesa.co

MakeitRightCoverI am beyond thrilled to announce that I have a brand new erotic story available on Bellesa.co!

Bellesa is a high-quality porn and sexuality website for women, featuring some of the best videos, sex-positive articles and erotica on the net. Seriously, go check out their offerings. The quality of their stuff is top-notch. I’ve sampled it myself. 😉

And best of all? You can enjoy all of this scintillating content, including my short story “Make It Right,” for FREE!

Kat, the main character in this story, is a café owner with a taste for good coffee, great whisky, and refined men in even finer suits.

Intrigued? Grab yourself a cup of something strong and settle in for a steamy excerpt.

Or, better yet, hop on over to Bellesa to start reading from the beginning.

Excerpt from “Make It Right” by Rachel Woe:

“What about him?” Esteban aims his knife at the bar. I wait a few seconds and then turn.

A dark-skinned man sips beer from a pilsner glass. From this distance, I’d guess him to be at least forty-five. His navy-blue suit is well-fitted, though not as bespoke as Esteban’s Armani. And the way he pauses between drinks to swipe at his phone suggests he’s on his own time. Alone, but not lonely.

“Do you find him handsome?” Esteban asks.

“You know I do.” He wouldn’t have pointed him out otherwise.

Esteban’s gaze narrows. Jealousy was a point of contention throughout his marriage. Since his divorce, he’s worked to recognize the tendency so he can control it instead of the other way around. In doing so, he’s discovered that jealousy turns him on. Aggravation as a means of arousal, a combustive combination.

“Do you think he has a big cock?” His breath is hot on my neck. I don’t have to touch him to know he’s hard, but I reach over anyway.

“Not as big as yours.” I palm Esteban through his trousers, making him hum low in his throat. Occasionally, I can get him so worked-up that he’ll fondle me under the table. Always over my panties; never enough to get me off.

“I bet you’d like to find out.”

Click to read the rest of “Make It Right” on Bellesa.co

“House Rules” Now Available!

Surprising Myself Cover

I am pleased to announce that my short, kinky story “House Rules” is now available as part of Insatiable Press’s first original anthology exploring women’s secret fantasies, Surprising Myself.

Read an excerpt!

Cole’s gaze narrowed. “So, Maddy, tell me what you’re into.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Standard stuff, I guess,” I said. “Bondage, S&M, submission. Spanking.”

His lip quirked. “You want to be spanked.”

My buzz was wearing off. I wiped the sweat from my upper lip, hoping he hadn’t noticed it, which was silly because we were practically on top of each other. I was tired of talking and having the spotlight focused solely on me. “What about you? I’m sure the sex you and your fiancé had put everything you did with Ashley to shame.”

“My ex wasn’t into it.”

“Oh.” I paused. “How long were you two together?”

Cole’s gaze dropped. “A year and a half.”

“Can I ask what happened?” I needed to hear him say it.

Cole sighed. “I scened with someone else. We didn’t have sex, but we may as well have, as far as my ex was concerned. She was right, in a lot of ways. There was some emotional infidelity.” He studied his hands. “It’d been so long. I just…needed the release. I never wanted to hurt her.” He grunted. “I mean, I did. That was kind of the problem.”

Cole scrubbed his guilt-ridden face. I couldn’t condone his behavior, but I could relate. For years I’d placed myself in relationships with men who couldn’t give me what I wanted. I thought I was being practical, but in truth, I was afraid — afraid that the things I wanted were too extreme, too strange, too hard to find, so why bother?

Eventually, I stopped dating altogether. Vanilla sex left me hollow. I wanted to be filled to bursting.

I took a deep breath and touched Cole’s knee. “I’m sorry. I know how it feels to repress who you are in order to fit someone else’s mold of what’s acceptable, and I know what it is to deny yourself the things you want most. But you shouldn’t have to.”

Cole stared at my hand. “Why do you deny yourself?”

“Fear mostly. And the belief that what I want most is something I can never have.”

“And what do you want?” Cole studied me, his eyes hungry for something I couldn’t put into words. I only knew I wanted to give it to him.

“Release.”

He wetted his lips. “Madeline, when you played with your exes, did you use a safe word?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

I swallowed hard.

“Mercy.”

Product Description: Thirteen writers present sexy, steamy stories of women getting the chance to live out their personal fantasies. What’s yours? Whether it’s several lovers at the same time for a pulse-pounding ménage scene or the allure of getting caught in public, these stories will set your mind ablaze. From voyeurism in a sex club to swinging, cuckolding to cosplay, Surprising Myself brings you stories from 13 hot new writers to watch out for and just might make you think about fulfilling your own wildest fantasy.

Surprising Myself (ed. by Matthew Cooper) is available in ebook and audiobook formats from Amazon, Amazon UK, Barnes & Noble and Audible.

On Finishing: What I’ve Learned from Completing a First Draft

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Rounding out at approximately 87,000 words, my novel-in-progress is no longer in-progress. It is done. Well, what I call the “first working draft” of it, anyway. It’s not quite a first draft since I’ve been editing and posting it on Literotica chapter-by-chapter since April 2014, but it’s still a bit rough around the edges—especially those first few chapters. While my ultimate plans for the story are still up in the air, I can say that I’m really, really glad to have finally laid down that last sentence. It took ten months to complete this story and with three anthology projects lined up for February, I’m going to need all the extra headspace I can scrounge up.

I don’t want to wax poetic about the process because, as a rule, I try not to treat my words as though they were precious. Yes, I live and breathe writing and storytelling, but if there’s one quality that I could giftwrap and ship to every budding writer, it would be ruthlessness. By that, I mean: don’t coddle yourself or your work, pledge to finish what you start (and then do that), and if cutting an 8k draft down to 500 words will make the story better, then by all means, snip away.

Having said that, I will concede that the post-I-just-wrote-a-book-high is pretty fantastic in a quiet, “Well, how ‘bout that?” sort of way. I tried really hard not to harbor any expectations as to how it would feel, but a few managed to slip in somewhere between the final chapter and the epilogue. I expected to cry a lot and maybe wind up on the floor for a while. That didn’t happen. In fact, more than anything, what I really want to do is get back to work: the consistent, comforting routine of sitting quietly and meeting the quota.

Don’t get me wrong, I love this story. I love the characters and the smutty romance and the weird little connections that weren’t intended but somehow found themselves lining up all pretty and semi-coherent on the page. I’m happy to have finally given my characters, and hopefully, my readers, a sense of closure and an ending that doesn’t leave them smacking their tongues like they’ve just tasted something cloying.

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Finishing this story has taught me a lot about both myself as a writer and novel-crafting in general. My hope is that these observations might be of some use to you, especially if you’re in the thick of your first big project. So, without further ado, here are five things I’ve learned from completing a first draft:

1. Writing fiction will make you more honest and compassionate. While our stories and characters may be imaginary, what we’re ultimately attempting to accomplish each time we put our words to paper is the tapping of some universal truth, something each of us can relate to. Striving to create authentic characters forces us to look at people—really look at them—and see them as they truly are, prejudices and all. It cultivates compassion. I once heard it argued that the best actors are those who, rather than judge a character’s actions or motivations, pause and take the time to contemplate, “How might I be different if I were subject to these particular circumstances?” Writing requires a similar suspension of cognizance. We pull people out of our brain-muck and then make them do things and sometimes those things aren’t so nice. It’s important that we understand why they do the things they do, not just so that we can make them believable, but so that we can make them sympathetic.

2. Trust the stream-of-consciousness. This one took a while to embrace because, for a long time, I was an “edit as I go” kind of writer. However, while that might work for some, I find it to be crippling. You know that incredible feeling when the words just flow as though the prose was moving through you from some other-worldly source? Well, there’s no better way to quell that stream than to ask it to hold on a second while you perfect this description of a chandelier. It’s tough to look at a line of dialogue and know that it’s crap and leave it there anyway, but that’s the pain and pleasure of revision: don’t worry, you’ll be back…many times over. Just get the words down.

3. The show vs. tell situation is slightly different for Erotica and Romance writers. I wish someone had told me this sooner. Somewhere around chapters four and five of The Cabin, I started to feel like I was writing a technical manual. I was reading a lot of craft books that advised me to show, show, show instead of tell. However, what I didn’t realize at the time was that telling is actually an important tool for Romance writers, especially when writing in first-person. Love and sexuality are incredibly personal subjects. If the characters aren’t baring themselves both physically and emotionally, they can come off as cold, stiff, and unrelatable—the kiss of death for a Romance novelist. No, you don’t want to drown your readers in exposition and if I can convey attraction with a shy smile and a head-tilt rather than flat-out stating, “I think you’re dreamy,” I will. But Romance readers expect that inner monologue, and for good reason. It’s a staple of the genre that places the reader inside the protagonist’s head and then guides them throughout the rest of the story, helping them understand why the character might feel or react a certain way. Speaking of which…

4. If the characters are resisting, something might be wrong. I’m not talking about dragging them kicking and screaming into necessary hardships. I’m talking about recognizing a dead end when you see one. For a while I tried really, really hard to convince two of my characters to get friendly, but they wouldn’t have it. That I even needed to “convince” them was a red flag that I wasn’t being faithful to their motivations. Coming up with a great scene is only half the battle. Ensuring that all the pieces align to make said event happen the way you want requires forethought. You need to sow those seeds early so that each action a character takes makes sense.

5. You won’t know how good (or not good) it is until you get some distance. Now, this is another area where a lot of writers differ, but I happen to identify with the camp that needs to tuck a finished piece away for a while before they can effectively edit it. How long this period lasts depends on length. Short stories need maybe a few days to a week, while a novel would require significantly more time to breathe—at least a month. I like to use that in-between time to refresh my brain with shorter projects, like anthology submissions. Each new venture has the potential to stretch you that much further, improving your voice and strengthening your storytelling muscles. By the time you pull that old project out of the digital drawer, you’ll be looking at it with a brand new set of eyes.

Bonus: It really is all about finishing. There are few good reasons not to finish and sucking isn’t one of them. All first drafts suck. We hear it time and time again: “You can always edit a bad page. You can’t edit a blank page” (Jodi Picoult). Granted, knowing when to abandon a project is a skill unto itself, but I’d venture to say that you’re better off at least finishing a first draft before making that call. Finishing is about more than just ending a story. It’s about resolve and proving to yourself (and others, but that’s less important) that you are capable of doing what you set out to do. If you can do it once, you can do it again. And again. And again.

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FF: Wrong Side of the Tracks

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The idea for this flash fiction piece spawned from a photo I discovered on Pinterest, originally featured on Vogue Italia. I can’t reblog it for copyright reasons, but you can view it here (SFW).

I decided to try for something a bit more sensual this time, perhaps even subtle. As always, feedback is encouraged and greatly appreciated.

Enjoy ♥


He adjusts his tie, tightening and then smoothing it into the collar of his brown corduroy blazer. Delivery trucks and early commuters rumble overhead just as the sun’s first rays illuminate the iridescent swirls of grease along the river’s edge. He scratches at the coating of scruff upon his jaw, wondering if he should’ve shaved for the occasion. Jagged stones threaten to punch holes into the soles of his scuffed loafers. He checks his watch.

She’s late.

The sun reaches higher, reflecting off the train tracks that run beneath the bridge’s metal and concrete foundation. He folds his arms, compressing the package that lies tucked within the inner breast pocket of his blazer.

A car horn blares, drawing his attention to the bustling city above. Pedestrians and bicyclists have joined the fray. Scurrying off to their day jobs, they are oblivious to those who would conduct their business in the dark.

The crunch of rubber soles against loose rock jerks him back down to the depths of the bottom-dwellers. She approaches from the south, hair clipped high, wearing a taupe, knee-length trench coat, gathered at the waist with a silver buckle. Her tall, heeled boots are a poor match for the uneven terrain, and she wobbles slightly, holding tight to the briefcase in her hand.

She glances over her shoulder, then to either side, before coming to stand before him—near enough to reach out and touch palms, but not so close that she could not flee if provoked. He extends his hand.

“You’re late,” he says.

She clasps his palm and quickly withdraws. “I was detained.”

“By whom?”

“Who do you think?”

He smirks and gestures to the briefcase. “Is that all of it?”

“Most of it.”

His eyes narrow. “You know I don’t do charity.”

“You’ll get the rest once I’ve determined that your client’s work is adequate.”

He unbuttons his blazer and reaches for the breast pocket. His gaze roves over her shapely form, lingering on the hint of cleavage at the meeting of her lapels. She shifts her weight, skimming an errant curl behind her ear. His fingers brush the parcel. He pauses.

“Perhaps we should move somewhere less conspicuous,” he says.

“Such as?”

He nods towards the underside of the bridge. She cocks an eyebrow.

“Do you want it or not?”

She sighs. “Fine.”

They follow the tracks beneath the steel and stone edifice, circumventing the empty bottles, crumpled food wrappers, and plastic bags.

“So,” he says. “How’s life at the top treating you?”

“I can’t complain.”

“Bet you wrinkled your nose when I suggested we meet down here.”

“I did no such thing.”

He chuckles. “Right. I’m sure you’re just as comfy by the river as you are at one of those swanky fundraisers.”

“I adapt to my surroundings. Always have.”

“Uh-huh. Tell me, how much does that husband of yours make a year? Forty? Fifty mil?”

“Haven’t asked.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure it wasn’t too much of a hardship for you to ‘adapt’ to his lifestyle.”

She halts. “I haven’t forgotten who I am. Or where I come from.”

“Sure. That’s why you thought it would be a good idea to wear those shoes down here, yeah?”

“I’m keeping up, aren’t I?” She scowls.

“That you are.” He tugs at one of the loose threads upon his sleeve.

He leads them to a shadowy spot about halfway through the tunnel. Spray-painted exhibitions ornament the concrete walls, splashes of color eclipsing cold, industrial gray.

He turns to face her, a sly smile playing at his lips. “See? Much better.”

“Right.” She kicks a discarded soda can and sends it rattling.

He rakes a hand through his hair. “You know, on second thought, I think the price just doubled.”

“Did it?” She raises an eyebrow.

“You’re going to have to adjust your offer.”

She folds her arms, squeezing her breasts together. “I don’t have time for this.”

He steps toward her and she retreats until her back is flush with the concrete. Her arms drop. His hot breath washes over her as his fingers entwine with hers about the handle of the briefcase.

She swallows. “We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” Her breath hitches as he captures her jaw, tracing her lips with his thumb.

“Because?” He slips the briefcase from her as their mouths collide.

She squirms as he moves closer, his chest pressed tight against hers. He tosses the case, bringing both palms to her cheeks. Whining into his mouth, she wedges her hands between them and shoves him back.

“No,” she whispers. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this again.”

He strokes her face with one finger, starting at her temple and ending at her mouth. Pushing past her lips, he sides his fingertip over her tongue. She suckles him, her cheeks flushed. He unfastens her hair clip, letting the soft waves cascade onto her shoulders.

“I’ve missed you,” he says.

She closes her eyes. He slides his free hand between their bodies, locating the silver belt buckle. The slippery material of the trench coat gives easily. He sweeps the front flaps aside, revealing a wine-colored bustier and matching panties—and not much else.

Continue reading “FF: Wrong Side of the Tracks”